On the side of the mountain, arms, shakos, knapsacks, dead—all the signs of a rout—were alone seen. Opposite appeared Marc-Dives's guns, ready to open fire anew in case of a new attack.
The partisans had gained the day; but no shout of triumph rose from their intrenchments. Their losses had been too cruel. Silence had succeeded the tumult of battle—silence, deep and solemn—and those who had escaped the carnage gazed earnestly at their fellows, as if wondering to see them yet alive. A few called aloud for friends, some for brothers, who replied not. Then search began throughout the length of the works for Jacob, or Philippe, or Antoine.
And the gray shades of night were falling fast over mountain and valley, and lending a strange mystery to the horrid picture; and men came and went without knowing one another.
Materne wiped his bloody bayonet, and called his boys in hoarse tones:
"Kasper! Frantz!"
And seeing them approach in the half-darkness, he asked:
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
The voice of the old hunter, harsh as it was, trembled.
"We are all three again together; God's mercy be thanked!" he murmured.