“It is M. le Capitaine de Breteuil. He is dying!” The women separated to allow a lady, with three little children clinging to her gown, to push her way to the front.
“Carry him home,” she said quietly. “At least the good Lord has granted the favor of permitting him to die with me. I must have courage; he will need me beside him. Let us be together while we may.”
For an instant she had seemed on the point of breaking into a wild outcry, but quickly checking the impulse, had braced herself for the duty waiting her. Now, as she spoke, the icy composure of voice and manner seemed almost like indifference. A black-robed nun silently detached herself from the crowd, and placed herself at the side of the stricken wife. Dollier de Casson, his brown earnest face all quivering with emotion, solemnly raised his hands in benediction over the living and the dying.
“You will not grudge the sacrifice, my daughter? It is a hero willingly and gallantly laying down his life for his faith and his King.”
“There will be plenty of time to consider that later,” she answered, very quietly. “Now he needs me. I have no thought to spare for aught else.”
The whole assembly were hanging eagerly upon the accents of le Canotier, who had already delivered the despatches he had brought to M. du Plessis.
“We marched straight to Chambly—such were our orders. The object of M. de Valrenne was to permit those devils of English to pass, and then, by placing himself in their rear, to cut them off from their canoes. Our scouts—and there are none better than Misti, Tshinespek and Mushawana,—soon discovered the advance of the enemy, and then we marched six or seven miles towards La Prairie, on the path by which Schuyler was retreating. The sun stood high; it was nine o’clock when our scouts met those of the foe, and then—Dianthe!—the woods resounded with the shrill yells of the Indians as their war-whoops gave the alarm. You all know how that part of the country is buried in forests. We take possession of a ridge of ground that crosses the way of those English wolves. Two enormous trees thrown down by the storm have fallen along the crest of this rising ground, and behind these we crouch in a triple row, well hidden by bushes and thick standing stumps, like wolves ready to spring upon their prey. Believe me, Mesdames and Messieurs, I have witnessed much of forest warfare, yet never before have I seen so hot a conflict. The English charged like devils—(to give them their due they do not lack courage)—and were sent reeling back by a close and deadly volley. Like hail the balls flew—three times were we mingled together, scorching each other’s shirts by the flash of our guns. With still greater fury our enemies repeated the attack, and dislodged us from our place of ambush. It was then the veritable struggle commenced. Figure to yourself that they determined to break through our lines, and our commandant desired, above all else, to drive them back within the reach of our people at La Prairie. Our muskets thirsted to kill. There, amidst that storm of hell-fire, stood M. de Valrenne, giving his orders, calm and smiling as at a ball. Forty dead they left behind them, those English, yet they managed to cut their way through and drive us from the path.”
To the anxious listeners the prospect appeared to grow darker and more appalling. There had been a sharp engagement, many lives apparently had been lost, and who could divine whose heart had been smitten, whose home rendered desolate?
“M. le Lieutenant Dumerque?” asked a timorous voice.
“Dead; shot at my side,” responded le Canotier, with the sharp brevity of excitement. “I see a little officer with hair as red as his coat, fighting like a Turk. I send him a sugar plum—v’là!—his legs in the air, but not before mon Lieutenant had fallen, pierced by a shot from his hand.”