CHAPTER LX.
RESCUE.
A dull and pricking pain over all my stiffened limbs, as the blood slowly and laboriously forced its way through vein and artery; a dim light in my aching eyes, as if the dawn were just stealing upon the night; a confused sense of sounds and voices growing more distinct and palpable, were the first sensations of returning animation I experienced.
I respired with difficulty, and with that respiration life and energy came back to me. I found myself stretched at length upon a grassy bank, on which the warm sunshine played. My arms were free; the straps that bound them once lay beside me cut and severed, with the unexploded petard—unexploded because it had been drenched in the water of the mountain stream, from which I had been rescued with difficulty by my friends; but chiefly by the bravery and exertions of the valiant border baronet, Sir Quentin Home of Redden, and and the Chevalier Livingstone d'Angoulême, who plunged their chargers in below that part of the stream in which I was struggling, and succeeded in getting me landed, as the former said, 'Like a huge salmon grilse from the Tweed.'
I found myself surrounded by the familiar faces of nine cuirassiers of the Scottish Guard, led by old Patrick Gordon; and their surprise to find that the rescued man, the escaped prisoner, whom they had just fished from the river, was one of themselves—Arthur Blane—was great indeed. Revived by a good dose of brandy from Patrick's flask, and by some dry garments which they gave me from their valises (for these cavaliers were all cap-a-pie, and in marching order), I looked up to the crag over which I had rolled in my terror and agony of soul; and on seeing that it was at least fifty feet high, and that I was safe and sound, wind and limb, and save a tremulous sensation, not a whit the worse of the whole affair, I thanked heaven for my release from Phalsbourg, and for my escape from all the perils that followed it.
Mounted on Livingstone's horse, being as yet unable to walk, unless slowly and laboriously, we proceeded down the valley, and on looking back, from time to time, I saw the dark tower of Phalsbourg apparently rise higher among the mountains, as we descended.
'We will return anon, Arthur,' said our grim Marechal de Logis, 'and bring to a severe reckoning this Count de Bitche and his garrison of outlaws: I suppose they are all ragamuffins sprung from the barricades, as we say in Paris.'
'And how about your siege of Zaberne?' I asked, surprised to find myself conversing calmly, and among friends too, after all that had passed.
A cloud came over all their faces at the question.
'It fell this morning,' said Gordon.