“Advance, my lord,” cried Auvergne; D’Assas is at his side. “Of all the knights who form my train, who ’neath my banner ride, None hold the place of trust the king our sovereign gives to thee,— Wilt thou accept a fearful charge that death or fame shall be? Wilt thou, O D’Assas! ride to-night close to the foemen’s line, And see what strength he may oppose to these proud hosts of mine?” Then D’Assas bows his stately head. “Thy will shall soon be done. Back will I come with tidings full e’er dawns the morning sun.”
’Tis midnight. D’Assas rideth forth upon his well-tried steed. Auvergne hath made a worthy choice for this adventurous deed. But stop! what means this silent host? How stealthily they come! No martial music cleaves the air, no sound of beaten drum. Like spectre forms they seem to glide before his wondering eyes; Well hath he done, the wary foe, to plan this wild surprise. Back D’Assas turns; but ah! too late,—a lance is laid in rest: The knight can feel its glittering point against his corselet prest.
“A Frenchman! Hist!” A heavy hand has seized his bridle-rein. “Hold close thy lips, my gallant spy; one word, and thou art slain. What brought thee here? Dost thou not know this is the Fatherland? How dar’st thou stain our righteous earth with thy foul Popish band? Wouldst guard thy life, then utter not one sound above thy breath; A whisper, and thy dainty limbs shall make a meal for Death. Within thy heart these blades shall find the black blood of thy race, And none shall ever know or dream of thy last resting-place.”
Calm as a statue D’Assas stands. His heart he lifts on high. “The God of battles! help me now, and teach me how to die. A weeping maid will mourn my fate, a sovereign holds me dear; Be to them ever more than I who perish sadly here.” No word has passed his pallid lips, no sound his voice has made. ’Twas but the utterance of his heart, this prayer the soldier prayed. But then? ah, then! No voice on earth e’er rang more loud and clear: “Auvergne!” he cried, “Auvergne, Auvergne! Behold! the foe is here!”
The forest echoes with the shout. Appalled his captors stand. The courage of that dauntless heart has stayed each murderous hand. A moment’s pause,—then who can tell how quick their bayonets’ thrust Reached D’Assas’ heart, and laid him there, a helpless heap of dust! The bravest chevalier of France, the pride of Louis’ train,— His blood bedews that alien earth, a flood of crimson rain. But Auvergne—Auvergne hears the cry; his troops come dashing on: Ere D’Assas’ spirit leaves its clay, the victory has been won. Mary E. Vandyne, in Good Cheer.
THE MAN WITH THE MUSKET.
Soldiers, pass on from this rage of renown, This ant-hill commotion and strife, Pass by where the marbles and bronzes look down With their fast-frozen gestures of life, On, out to the nameless who lie ’neath the gloom Of the pitying cypress and pine; Your man is the man of the sword and the plume, But the man of the musket is mine.
I knew him! by all that is noble, I knew This commonplace hero I name! I’ve camped with him, marched with him, fought with him too, In the swirl of the fierce battle-flame! Laughed with him, cried with him, taken a part Of his canteen and blanket, and known That the throb of this chivalrous prairie boy’s heart, Was an answering stroke of my own.