It came at last.
"Now is our time," cried Marc. "One brave blow, and the guns are ours."
And forth from the cover of the wood, their long mantles floating behind in the wind, every man, in his fiery impatience, bending over his saddle-bow, and pointing his long, straight rapier straight forward, broke the bold riders.
"The point, my lads! the point! never mind the edge!" shouted Dives.
In a moment they were on the pieces. Among Marc's troop were four old dragoons who had seen the Spanish wars through, and two veteran cuirassiers of the guard, whom love of danger had attached to the smuggler. The rammers and short sabres of the artillerymen could avail but little against their well-aimed thrusts, each one of which brought a man to the earth.
Marc's cheek was blackened with the powder of a pistol fired within six inches of his head; a bullet passed through his hat; but his course was not staid until his sword pierced the old officer with the light mustache through and through, at one of the cannons. Then, rising slowly in his saddle until his tall form sat erect, he gazed around, and said sententiously:
"The guns are ours!"
But the scene was terrible; the mêlée on the high plateau; the shrieks, the neighing of horses, or their cries of agony; the shouts of rage; men casting away their arms in a wild flight for life, an inexorable foe pursuing; beyond the ravine, ladders crowded with white uniforms and bristling with bayonets; mountaineers defending themselves with the fierce courage of despair; the sides of the slope, the road, and the foot of the abatis heaped with dead, or wounded writhing in anguish; still further away, the masses of the enemy advancing, with musket on shoulder, and officers in the midst urging them on; old Materne, on the crest of the steep, swinging his clubbed rifle with deadly effect, and shouting for his son Frantz, who was rushing at full speed with his command to the fight; Jean-Claude directing the defence; the deafening musketry, now in volleys, now rattling like some terrible hailstorm; and, rolling above all, the vague, weird echoes of mountain and valley. All this was pressed into that one moment.
Marc-Dives was not of a contemplative or poetic turn of mind, however, and wasted no time in useless reflections upon the horrors of war. A glance showed him the position of affairs, and, springing from his horse, he seized one of the levers of the guns, and in a moment had aimed the yet loaded piece at the foot of the ladders. Then he seized a match and fired.