But Divès was not of a contemplative turn: he lost no time in making poetical reflections on the uproar and savagery of the battle. With one look he had taken in the whole situation; so, springing from his horse, he went up to the first gun, which was still loaded, aimed it at the ladders, and fired.
Then there arose wild clamors, and the smuggler, peering through the smoke, saw that fearful havoc had been made in the enemy's ranks. He waved his hands in sign of triumph, and the mountaineers on the breastworks answered with a general hurrah.
"Now then, dismount," said he to his men, "and don't go to sleep. A cartridge, a ball, and some turf. We will sweep the road. Look out!"
The smugglers put themselves in position, and continued to fire with enthusiasm upon the white coats. The bullets rained into their ranks. At the tenth discharge there was a general sauve-qui-peut.
"Fire! fire!" shouted Marc.
And the partisans, now supported by Frantz's troop, regained, under Hullin's directions, the positions which they had for the moment lost.
The whole of the hill-side was soon covered with dead and wounded. It was then four in the evening; night was approaching. The last ball fell into the street of Grandfontaine, and rebounding on the angle of the pavement, knocked down the chimney of the "Red Ox."
About six hundred men perished that day: there were, of course, many mountaineers among them, but the greater number were "kaiserlichs." Had it not been for the fire of Marc Divès's cannon, all would have been lost; the partisans were not one against ten, and the enemy had already begun to gain on the trenches.