They had won the victory, and, turning to the men of the battalion of the Bonnet-Rouge, Gauvain exclaimed,—
"Though you are but twelve, you are equal to a thousand."
One word from the chief in times like these was as good as the cross of honor.
Guéchamp, who had been sent by Gauvain outside the city in pursuit of the fugitives, captured many of them.
Torches were lighted, and the town was searched.
All those who had not been able to escape, surrendered themselves. The principal street, illuminated by pots-à-feu, was strewn with the dead and the wounded. The fierce struggle that always terminates a battle was still continued by a few groups of desperate fighters, who, however, on being surrounded, threw down their arms and surrendered.
Gauvain had observed amid the wild tumult of the flight a fearless man, vigorous and agile as a faun, who stood his own ground while covering the flight of the others. This peasant, after handling his musket like an expert, alternately firing: and Rising the butt as a club, until he had broken it, now stood grasping a pistol in one hand and a sabre in the other, and no man dared approach him. Suddenly Gauvain saw him reel, and lean against one of the pillars of the principal street. He was evidently wounded, but he still held his sabre and his pistols. Gauvain put his sword under his arm and came up to him. As he called upon him to surrender, the man gazed steadily at him, while the blood oozing from his wound formed a pool at his feet.
"You are my prisoner," said Gauvain. "What is your name?"
"Danse-à-l'Ombre," was the reply.
"You are a brave fellow," said Gauvain, extending his hand.