Boom! boom! on our front at last. Those are the English field-pieces beginning to reply to the salute we have been lavishly doling out. They fire well, those English artillerymen, and their shots come plumping into the entrenchments and crashing into the forest. The men begin to drop in the first line.
“Look at that fool De Grammont,” André muttered, pointing with his sword.
An officer on a white charger was galloping to and fro in front of his regiment of guards, encouraging them in this gallant madcap fashion to keep steady under the ever-increasing fire.
“By God! he’s down,” he exclaimed as he saw the white horse stumble and fall, struck by a six-pounder; and friendly arms are carrying his shattered rider dying to the rear.
“Poor De Grammont!” said St. Benôit, wiping away a tear, “never again will his hot-headed chivalry lead us into a devil’s trap as at Dettingen.”
And he was right. De Grammont, who had ruined a French army on the Maine, had fought his last fight that morning, for a cannon-ball had smashed his thigh.
“Drums! English drums!” André cried excitedly. “They are advancing—can’t you hear ’em? We may be needed—thank God! we may be needed now.”
Below and across the roar of the guns, through the dirty smoke blended with the last wisps of the pearly mist, throbs in a glorious challenge the solemn tuck of English drums and the marching call of English trumpets. They are coming on now. Can we not see the flutter of English colours and the flash of light on epaulet and sword?
“A noble sight that!” muttered St. Benôit with a catch in his throat.
“They are fit for gentlemen to cross swords with,” said the generous André. “I hope they’ll last till we can meet them as they deserve.”