'In a moment I shall kill you—adieu! do you call that fencing? no lover could be a greater fool than you!—Ah, queen of heaven!—I am gone!' he exclaimed, and tossed his sword into the air. As he threw up his hands, the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell on his face. A ball, fired by Lord Dundrennan at another person, had pierced his chest, and slain him!
On his fall all resistance ceased; and thus, after considerable loss, at seven o'clock on the morning of the 25th July, 1635, the Scottish general of Louis XIII. hoisted the French standard on the ramparts of La Mothe.
CHAPTER XXV.
LETTERS FOR PARIS.
Sir Robert Bruce of Blairhall, and Sir Archibald Douglas of Heriotmuir, with other gallant gentlemen, French and Scottish, who were slain in this assault, we buried with all honour and solemnity in the church of La Mothe. I found the body of the silver-haired Sir Archibald lying close to the barrier gate, surrounded by piles of dead men. Near his hand lay a broadsword he would never grasp again. It was an old family weapon, and on its blade was engraved, 'Att Floddenfield and Pinkycleuch.' I also found the Chevalier d'Ische. As he lay dead within the Bastion de Louise, how difficult of recognition through that hideous mask of powder, blood, and dust, were the handsome features of the young and reckless Bailiff of Bassignie! I thought of the gay and beautiful Clara—she whose miniature by Poussin I still wore at my neck—and my soul grew sad, as the pikemen of Arpajou bore him away to his hastily-made grave.
Our trumpets sounded à cheval, 'to horse;' for all the cavalry were now to advance in pursuit of the Prince of Vaudemont, who had effected his escape towards the Maese; and loud and shrill they rang between the mountain peaks, where so many lay that never more would rise until the trumpet of the archangel wakes that wooded valley with its final blast.
I had my foot in the stirrup of Dagobert, and was in the act of mounting to advance with the cuirassiers, when the Laird of Tushielaw summoned me to the presence of the Camp-Marechal Hepburn, whom I found at the house of the defunct Governor of La Mothe, and seated in a splendid apartment, the tapestry of which represented the victories of Charles VII. over the English.
The Marquis of Gordon, Vicomtes Turenne and Arpajou, with other glittering nobles and chevaliers, were lounging about, speaking of the recent assault, drinking the Burgundy of poor Raoul d'Ische, and making considerable noise and merriment.
'This capture is quite equal to a victory in the field,' said Turenne.
'All Paris will speak of it for three days at least,' added Arpajou.