On verra tomber sous ses coups
Ceux qui provoquent son courroux
Par leur méchante vie.�
The last verses grew softer as they marched away, and the singing died at last in the distance.
Rosaline remained at her post, straining her eyes to search the darkness, and Babet, releasing Truffe, came and stood beside her. They could see the distant lights of St. Césaire, and this window in the daytime commanded a view of the road that led in the direction of St. Hippolyte. It was an hour of suspense, and none of the women thought of sleep. Old Madame de St. Cyr lay back in her chair, engaged in silent devotion, and the others watched and watched with tireless eagerness. The very stillness was oppressive, and the darkness now was like a pall, close over the earth.
“Ciel!� said Babet, “how quiet it is!—and black as soot. I wonder how many men he had?�
“There seemed to be an army,� replied Rosaline, “but I suppose it could not be that he had more than a thousand men, perhaps not so many, and Nîmes is a hive of soldiers!�
“Bah!� ejaculated the other woman, grimly, “Cavalier can whip them—he’ll have M. Montrevel’s periwig yet.�
Rosaline did not reply, her mind was elsewhere; she was thinking of that dangerous march into the enemy’s country, of the fight that must ensue.
Suddenly there was a distant sound—the fire of musketry—the first clash of battle, borne to them on the night air, and at the same moment they saw the lights flashing red in St. Césaire.