I went to my chamber, and was soon asleep upon my camp bed. I awakened about two o’clock in the morning with a strange feeling that something disastrous had happened. The rain was falling heavily—a summer rain that fell in great drops musically upon the thirsty ground and the trees in full leaf. So strong was the feeling of apprehension upon me that I rose quietly, slipped on my clothes, and opened the door to Count 274 Saxe’s room. He was lying in his bed, sound asleep. The window was wide open—for the night had been uncomfortably warm. It occurred to me how easy it would be to kidnap Count Saxe; there were but three sentries about the place, the rest of the small body of twenty soldiers being quartered some distance away, to guard the hay stores.
I determined to speak to Count Saxe next morning, upon the rashness of remaining at Hüningen under those risky circumstances. I had often laughed behind Madame Riano’s back at what she called presentiments, but this sudden waking, this seeing, all at once, a very present danger which had escaped everybody’s notice, seemed to me uncomfortably like those supernatural warnings which Madame Riano was always talking about. However, I concluded to take perfectly natural means to satisfy myself there was no danger brewing, and so went to Gaston Cheverny’s room. It was quite dark, and I lighted a candle with my flint and steel. He was not in his bed, and it had not been slept in. A chair, in which he had evidently been sitting, was pushed back from the table, on which were papers and a letter sealed and addressed to Francezka. The one window of the room, which looked upon the river, was wide open, and as I went to it, above the steady downpour of the rain I heard some faint noises on the river bank.
I went out, and called to the sentry, giving the countersign. There was no answer—for there was no sentry. I gave the alarm instantly, and at the same moment I heard distinctly the grating oars in their rowlocks, and the sound of a boat pulling off from the shore. 275 Lights shone in the house. Count Saxe, half dressed, was the first person out of it. The other officers came running with lanterns. We found the three sentries lying on the grass at some distance from each other, bound and gagged. By that time, the guards at the hay ricks, a quarter of a mile off, had seen the commotion, and were on hand. At once, the river bank was searched. Every man was accounted for, except Gaston Cheverny; but in a few minutes, a squad of soldiers returned from the river bank hauling a young Austrian officer with them. His uniform was all mud, and his face and hands were liberally besmeared. He was at once taken within the house, to be interrogated by Count Saxe, and he was, without exception, the most cheerful looking prisoner I ever saw. As a soldier flashed a lantern into his eyes, we saw that his countenance was wreathed in smiles.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said to us all, standing around him, Count Saxe in the middle, “I have pleasure in introducing myself—” this, with the jauntiest air in the world—“I am sub-Lieutenant Brohl, of his Imperial Majesty’s Hussar Regiment of Baronay, at your service. I see no general officer here—” Count Saxe, being only half dressed, might have been anything—“but we have made a fine haul, and got our prize away, too. The boat is on the other side of the river by this time.”
“Kindly explain yourself further, Lieutenant Brohl,” said Count Saxe, coolly.
“With pleasure,” remarked Lieutenant Brohl. His debonairness reminded me of Gaston Cheverny’s, at the same age, for the young Austrian was little past 276 twenty. “You have got me, a sub-lieutenant—caught, because I would not delay our boat in getting off with the finest quarry yet secured in this war.”
Count Saxe and the rest of us waited to hear this laughing prisoner explain matters still further.
“We, of the regiment of Baronay, determined to immortalize ourselves by carrying off Count Saxe—and we succeeded. He is, by this, landed on the other side of the river, and in the hands of Prince Eugene, and for ourselves who took him, our fortunes are made—mine, a prisoner, as well as those who escaped—for when my comrades would have delayed the boat for me, I cried to them to pull out into the river, beyond pistol shot, and never wait for me—if they had Count Saxe—and him they have.”
“How did you get him?” asked Count Saxe.
“Very cleverly, Monsieur. We landed from the boat, unseen and unheard in the rain and darkness. There were but eighteen of us, all told. We managed to secure all three of the sentries—you should have had at least six—and Count Saxe should never have slept a night in this unguarded place. We then slipped into the house, of which we had a plan, with Count Saxe’s room marked there—” he pointed to Gaston Cheverny’s empty room. “The window of the room was wide open, and it was quite dark, but we could see that Count Saxe had fallen asleep before his writing table—”