'Bon—diable! give me that!' shouted De Bitche, making a snatch at the envelope, which contained the brave Hepburn's diploma of Marshal of France; 'and now away with the moucharde to the turret above the river; but, off with his buff coat first. Aha, messieurs! 'tis laced, and of the true Parisian cut. Off with it, for by the favourite corn of St. Nicolas, he will never need it more!'
My buff coat was rudely torn off me by some half-drunken Swiss and Germans, among whom it formed an object of furious contention. I was then dragged through the hall, along a dark passage, and up a narrow stone stair, to a little arched door, through which I was thrust into an apartment lighted only by fitful gleams of the moon, across which the stormy clouds were hurrying in black masses; and there left to my own anxious and alarming thoughts.
CHAPTER LV.
THE TURRET.
My first impulse was to look from the window of this apartment. It was large for the window of a turret, but so closely grated that the iron bars, together with its height from the ground, precluded all chance of escape either by rope or ladder, if I had them. The fire-place was also enclosed by a complicated iron-grating, so that the chamber seemed peculiarly adapted for retention, escape by the chimney being even contemplated and provided against. The storm was dying away; the rain ceased to lash the walls and batter on the windows. I could see the steep brows and black defiles of the Vosges, over which the murky shadows of the clouds and the wavering gleams of the moon were flitting. Lofty and dusky these mountains were—dark and solemn too, seeming to approach as the moonlight gleamed along their rocky steeps, and anon receding into gloom as the crape-like clouds wrapped up the moon in their pall of murky vapour.
Morning soon began to dawn; and, as the sun came up, the storm, with all its clouds and shadows, its gusts of rain and wind, retired westward over the mountains, together with the gloom of night.
The steep Vosges looked green and bright, with all their thick waving woods and chestnut groves, many of these mountains being clothed from base to summit in foliage. In the valleys and defiles between them, nestled little thatched hamlets, bordered by rich meadows, by flower gardens, and by pastures of emerald green; in others I saw the lurid gleam of furnaces, where the copper-ore was smelted in mines that were old as the days of Hilderic, King of the Franks, who was lord of all Alsatia.
As the morning brightened and the day wore on, voices loud and clamorous came at times along the corridor from the hall, mingled with the tipsy shrieks and coarse laughter of women. These sounds gave me vague alarm. De Bitche and his ruffianly companions might be arranging and planning my death; and the contemplation of enduring a lonely and helpless murder at their hands filled my soul with a sickly horror which it is impossible to portray.
I knew the cruelties of which the Imperialists were capable. I knew that Colonel Sir James Ramsey, one of Scotland's best and bravest officers, was enclosed by them in a chamber of the castle of Dillingen, on the Danube, and there starved to death—he a prisoner of war, taken gallantly in battle under the Swedish banner. I knew that, like Caribs or Mohawks, these Austrians frequently murdered or mutilated their prisoners. At New Brandenburg they put a whole Scottish garrison to the sword, and tore the heart of Major Dunbar from his breast. At the dreadful sack of Magdeburg they rent the children from their mothers' wombs before they burned them both. In Saxony they roasted men before slow fires; in Silesia they boiled them like lobsters, to force them to discover hidden wealth; and in Lower Germany, committed such atrocities as were enough to bring a curse upon the house of Hapsburg.
My comrades were only six miles distant; twenty, perhaps thirty, thousand men were there, who, to save me, would each man have lent a hand to tear Phalsbourg from its foundations. This was a bitter, an agonising reflection! But that Marie Louise might never know the barbarous death I suffered for her sake was the bitterest thought of all! The hope of acquainting the Prince of Vaudemont of my danger was as vain as the chance of my being able to communicate with the besiegers of Zaberne; vain as the prospect of escape when I looked from the barred window of the lofty turret and saw the scarped hill and valley, overhung by the castle, a hundred feet below.