General Melac and his murderous hordes were in the old city of Speier, squandering the goods and money of which they had robbed the unfortunate inhabitants. Scarcely two months had elapsed since the departure of the French from Esslingen, and in that short interval they had laid more than one hundred towns in ashes.
But Melac was insatiable; his eyes feasted on the scarlet hue of German blood, his ears were ravished with the sounds of German groans and sighs; and oftentimes, when the poor hunted fugitives were flying from his presence, he made a pastime of their misery for himself, by aiming at them with his own musket, to see how many he could bring down before they passed out of sight.
He was holding a council of war with his generals; but, while he made merry over his cruelties of the day before, and projected others for the morrow, his officers frowned and averted their eyes.
His thick, sensual lips expanded with a hideous smile. "It would seem that my orders are not agreeable," said he. "Pray, gentlemen, am I so unlucky as to have earned your disapproval?"
There was no answer to this inquiry, but neither was there any change in the aspect of the officers.
"General Feuquiere," cried Melac, "you are not usually reticent; pray, let us hear your opinion of my mode of warfare."
"I cannot approve of cruelty," replied Feuquiere, bluntly. "Our men act much less like the brave soldiers of a Christian king, than like demons that have been let loose from hell."
"You do not flatter us," replied Melac. "And I am curious to know whether anybody else here present shares your opinion."
"We are all of one mind," was the unanimous reply.
"We are assassins and incendiaries, but we have never yet fought a battle like men," resumed De Feuquiere.