But Figueras was an important point, strategically; for which reason the Emperor—who generally in questions of political economy held lives cheaper than salt—had despatched an express to General Reille, who commanded the reserves at Perpignan, on the north side of the mountains, ordering him to proceed by forced marches to the relief of the garrison, as a step preliminary to the assault and capture of Gerona. And it was an advance body of this force which Luc and his companion had encountered bivouacking in the hills.
It was not a considerable body as the two gauged it, for Colonel de Regnac’s troops—raw Tuscan recruits, and possessed with a panic terror of the enemy—were showing a very laggard spirit in the venture, and no emulation whatever of their officers’ eagerness to encounter. In fact, Colonel de Regnac, with his regimental staff, some twenty all told, and few beside, had run ahead of his column by the measure of a mile or two, and was sitting down to rest and curse, below his breath, in a hollow of the hills, when the two captured vagabonds were brought before him.
There had been no light but the starlight, no voice but the downpouring of a mountain stream until the sentry had leaped upon them. Chatter and fire were alike prohibited things in those rocky ante-rooms of hate and treachery.
“Who are you?” had demanded the Colonel of Caron.
“A son of France, monsieur.”
“Whither do you go?”
“To attend the death-bed of my old father in Rousillon,” had answered Luc, lying readily.
The Colonel had arisen, and scanned his imperturbable face keenly.
“His name?”
Luc had told him truthfully—also his father’s circumstances and misfortunes.