And many birds have dropped, that were then on the wing,
All, all alone,
Beneath the cold stone,
Lies my sweet Mary!--Poor little thing!
Herval wept bitterly. It was one of the songs of his own youth, which he had himself sung in many a joyous hour: a song which was the master-key to visions of early happiness, and touching in its light emptiness upon all the most painful themes of thought. The song, the dear song of remembered happiness, sung at that moment of painful bereavement, was like a soldier's child springing to meet its father returning from the wars, and unconsciously plunging the arrow head deeper into the wound from which he suffered.
As he thus sat and wept, he was suddenly roused by the sound of a single musket shot at no great distance, and starting up, he listened, when loud cries from the other side of the chapel caught his ear, and he rushed out. All was dark; not a star was in the sky; but the air was free from vapour, and looking towards the spot from which the sounds proceeded, he could see a dark body moving rapidly along the side of the hill, beyond the enclosure round the chapel. The shot that had been fired was not returned, and hurrying up to the spot as fast as possible, he clearly distinguished a column of infantry marching along at a quick pace in that direction, and evidently seeking to force its way between the convent and the chapel. There was none but a single sentry in that direction--the man who had discharged his musket--and Herval exclaimed in agony, "Good God, how is this? They have been suffered to pass the morass and the stream!"
"I fired as soon as I saw them," replied the man; "but Virlay carried off all the men from down below there, and marched them up to the convent."
Herval struck his clenched hand against his brow, exclaiming, "Fool that I was to suffer him!" Then rushing back as fast as possible, he called all the rest of his troop to arms, and with the mere handful that assembled in a moment, rushed out by the gate through which the portress of the convent had entered, and attempted to cast himself in the way of the head of the enemy's column.
It was in vain, however, that he did so. A company of light infantry faced about, and met his first furious attack with a tremendous fire, while the rest of the force moved on. The sound, however, of the combat thus commenced, roused the rest of the camp, and the Count of Morseiul, himself on foot, and at the head of a considerable body of the most determined Huguenots, was advancing, ere five minutes were over, not to repel the attack of the enemy--for by what he saw, Albert of Morseiul instantly became aware, that, his camp being forced at the strongest point, it was in vain to hope that the King's army could be repulsed--but at least to cover the retreat of his troops with as little loss as possible.
All the confusion of a night combat now took place, the hurrying up by the dull and doubtful light; the cowardice that shows itself in many men when the eye of day is not upon them; the rashness and emotion of others, who indeed are not afraid, but only agitated; the mistakes of friends for foes, and foes for friends; the want of all knowledge of which party is successful in those points where the strife is going on at a distance.
As far as it was possible in such circumstances, Albert of Morseiul restored some degree of order and regularity to the defence. Relying almost altogether upon his infantry, he held the royalists in check, while he sent orders to some of the inferior commanders to evacuate the camp in as orderly a manner as possible, gathering the horse together upon the brow of the hill, so as to be ready when the occasion served to charge and support the infantry. His particular directions were despatched to Monsieur du Bar to maintain his post to the last, as the Count well knew that the forces of the Chevalier d'Evran were sufficient to attack the Huguenot camp on both sides at once.