And, before any one could stay him, he darted from the shelter of the gateway in which we stood; and raced on to the bridge. I heard a great shout on our side, and the roar of a volley; but dully only, for, enraged by the blow and the challenge, I followed him—I and a dozen others. Some fell, but he ran on, and I after him. He snatched up the petard and the hammer, I the spike. In a moment, as it seemed to me, we were at the farther gate attaching the engine to it. I held the spike, he hammered it; the smoke and the frowning archway, to some extent, protected us from the fire of those above.
I often think of those few seconds with the pride and the garrulousness of an old man. While they lasted we stood alone, separated from our friends by the whole length of the third span of the bridge. For a few seconds only indeed; then, with a yell of triumph, the remains of Henry's "forlorn" rushed forward, and though many fell, enough came on. In a trice eager hands took the engine from us, and secured the fuse effectually and lit it, and bore us back—I was going to say, out of danger; but alas! as a deafening crash and a blaze of light proclaimed the way open and the last gate down, he who had done the deed, and opened the way, fell across me, shot from a loophole! As the rain of fragments from the gate fell hissing and splashing in the stream that flowed below, and while the foot streamed over the bridge, and pressed through the breach, Antoine gave a little gasp, and died on my knee.
The rest all men know; how through five days and nights we fought the great street-fight of Cahors; how we took no rest, save against walls and doorways, or in the courts of houses we had won; how we ate and drank with hands smirched with blood, and then to it again; how we won the city house by house, and foot by foot, until at last the white flag waved from the great tower, and France awoke with a start to know that in the young prince of pleasure, whom she had deemed a trifler, was born the shrewdest statesman and the boldest soldier of all her royal line.
And Antoine? When I went, after many hours, to seek him, the horse had crossed the bridge, and even his body was gone. How he had traced us, how managed to come to the front so opportunely, whether without him the star of Navarre would have risen so gloriously on that night of '80, never to be forgotten, I cannot say. But when I hear men talk of Crillon and courage—above all, when I hear them talk of the fops and ribboned popinjays of to-day, with their loose breeches and their bell-mouthed boots, I think of my comrade and rival who won Cahors for the King. And I smile.