“They would have done better to have fed that fellow,” she said, decidedly, as we turned away; “he will do some fighting, depend upon it.”
“You are confident, Angélique?”
“Certainly, chérie; the town cannot be defended. We know that, and if General Murray goes out, as he is sure to, he will but march to his fate, as did our poor marquis.”
On the 22d of April we were up before daybreak, and saw the garrison march out with their cannon under a leaden sky and a cold drizzling rain. I went about my tasks weighed down by a sickening anxiety, for though I had renounced Hugh, it was impossible to banish him at all times from my thoughts, and I could not but remember that, in addition to the ordinary chances of battle, he had among his enemies a sworn foe in my brother, and among his friends a treacherous enemy in Sarennes. Against these dangers, at least, I could pray for him with an undivided heart.
Noise of firing came to us through the day, which we spent in Perpetual Adoration, but at evening the troops re-entered the town and the battle was still unfought.
On the morrow they were again assembled, and again we watched them march through the sodden streets.
We had not long to wait for news of the combat; every gust of wind swept down on us the faint crackle of musketry and the deep boom of cannon; it seemed interminable, but before the afternoon was well advanced the first stragglers had reached the gates. They were followed later by a mad, ungovernable mob of English troops, and soon the streets were choked with men, shrieking, crying, and swearing at their defeat. Their officers, with swords drawn, rode among them, threatening and striking, entreating and commanding to deaf ears, for the men were like wild beasts, and could not be controlled. It was not fear; it was like to a frenzy of rage and shame at their rout. They broke into taverns and even private houses, and presently the madness of drink added to the pandemonium. The wounded were with the greatest difficulty carried through the streets, and before evening our convent and every other refuge was crowded to the utmost.
It was a strange position for all of us; the wounded were our nominal enemies, it is true, but we had been living with them on terms of the kindliest intimacy for a long winter, and there was no stimulus of duty needed to make the nuns put forth every effort for their relief. To me they were more than generous enemies—they were countrymen and kinsmen for whom I was bound to work with a whole heart.
I was interrupted in my task by the appearance of Christopher. “Madam, I have come to tell you that your brother, the Captain, is safe.”
“Is he wounded?” I asked, with swift anxiety.