“An’ have you been blowing the bugles of Auvergne?” asked he, hat in hand.
“You may well call them so,” said the courtly officer. “The bugles of Auvergne are the heralds of victory!”
“The cause of liberty in America is won,” said Dennis. “Lafayette said it would be so when the French bugles should blow.”
Peter fell down on the green and wept like a child, saying, over and over: “The bugles of Auvergne! The bugles of Auvergne!”
It was a glorious day. The very earth seemed to be glad.
The Hussars sat for a time on their restless horses, surveying a scene unusual to their eyes. That simple church was not Notre Dame; the Governor’s house was not the Tuileries, nor Versailles, nor Marley, nor Saint Cloud. The green was not the Saint Cloud garden, the people were not courtiers. Yet their hearts glowed. They saluted the simple Governor.
Then the bugles blew again—the bugles of Auvergne, and a great sound rent the air.
The Hussars went to the fields for quarters, and the Duke followed the Governor into the war office to “consider.”
Washington came to Connecticut in safety. He reviewed the army on Lebanon green and at Hartford. Near Hartford he planned the campaign in Virginia that was to end the war.