Chapter LIX: The Parole

Inquiries were first made as to whether I was wounded; then as to who I was, my rank and name--for my attire, to say the least of it, was rather peculiar, and my face was still begrimed with powder. A glance showed me the situation in which I was placed.

The brow of the cliff, on which I stood, overhung the stream that brawled through the wooded defile, past the square black tower of Phalsbourg; further off, down the valley, lay the little fortified tower of that name, and beyond it were the Vosges, green, dun, or brown, but all huge and many shadowed, piled peak on peak, fading and mellowing away in the distance. On the other hand, the wooded defile opened out into a broad and sunlit valley, clothed with waving vineyards. This valley led towards Zaberne; and there I could see the discomfited infantry of king Louis, halted at the distance of a mile; but whether preparatory to renewing the attack, or to retiring, I know not. Nearer were the dragoons of Brissac, who had now fallen back to cover the rear of their foot; and nearer still were ten cavaliers in brilliant trappings, whose helmets and corslets, as they caracoled to and fro in the green meadows as if loth to retreat, flashed back the rays of the morning sun. On beholding them, a new impulse awoke within me, for I believed them to be ten gentleman of the Garde du Corps Ecossais, and eventually, my surmise proved correct.

Around me, and scattered over the brow of the grim cliff which overlooked all this panorama, were the prostrate forms of some twenty or thirty soldiers, killed or wounded in the skirmish; and close by me, were the men of the sally, falling into their ranks preparatory to marching back to the tower, under the orders of M. Schreckhorn's second in command.

A rapid and hopeless glance told me all this; and then I turned to meet, and if possible to baffle, the suspicious questions of the warlike Switzer, who wore a quaint old jagged suit of harness of the last century, and carried a pair of long pistols in his leathern girdle, while he wielded one of those enormous halberds, to which the countrymen of Tell have been so partial in all ages.

'Who are you, monsieur?' asked Schreckhorn, in his execrable French.

'Faith, I can scarcely tell,' said I.

'A peculiar state of mind--perhaps a prick of a sword might enlighten you? Speak!'

'I am one of your garrison of Phalsbourg,' I replied, with confidence, assured that to falter now, would destroy me.

'Does any one know this man?' asked Schreckhorn, looking around him; but not one of all the soldiers who crowded near, responded to his question.

'The Count de Bitche knows me well, and will answer for my honour and courage,' said I.

'We have only your word for that; but does it look like either honour or courage to skulk under this pile of leaves during an action? You say you are one of our soldiers?'

'But I am _not_ one of your soldiers.'

'What then?'

'A simple volunteer.'

'I do not recognise you.'

'How should you, M. Schreckhorn, when you came to Phalsbourg but yesterday or the day before?'

'Peste! that is true; but then you cannot have any objection to return with us.'

'I have a most decided objection, M. le Capitaine.'

'Parbleu!'

'I do not choose to serve longer under the Count de Bitche.'

'This is rank mutiny; but perhaps you would prefer to serve under the enemy?'

'I have not said so. A volunteer chooses his own leader; it is the rule of war.'

'From whence came you last?'

'Champagne.'

'Aha--France!' said Schreckhorn, with kindling eyes, and I found that I had made a false move. 'You issued out with us; speak quick, fellow, for our troops are marching in, and yonder ten troopers are nearer than I like. You joined our sortie?'

'My presence here implies that I did so,' said I, haughtily, and gathering confidence on perceiving that some five or six petardiers, who remained by the side of Schreckhorn, all the soldiers of the sortie, were now marching into Phalsbourg.

'Then you must know the password for the day?'

'I know both parole and countersign.'

'What are they?' he asked, in a gentler tone.

'"Mathias" and "Vienna."'

'False, by St. Nicholas! Here is a spy!' exclaimed Schreckhorn, seizing me.

'These words were given to me by the Count in person.'

'Thou liest! The Count has not been seen among us to-day.'

'And the passwords----'

'Are "_Gallas_" and "_Prague_."'

'Then the villain has deceived me,' said I, as the petardiers laid hold of me; and just at that moment a soldier came running breathlessly towards us, crying, as the devil would have it--

'Hola, M. Schreckhorn! hola?

'What is the matter, fellow?'

'The spy we took last night has escaped from the turret, leaving in his place M. le Commandant, robbed and half murdered.'

'Mordieu! then this is our man. I must have been blind or mad not to recognise him even in this tatterdemalion dress, and with that visage of his, so artfully blackened!'

'Shoot him!' cried a petardier, drawing a pistolette from his girdle. 'Tête Dieu! an ounce of lead, my boy, will pay your passage to the other world, and here it is.'

'Cut him down!' suggested another, drawing his sword.

'Nay, take him back, and let M. le Comte deal with him, in person,' said the messenger.

'No, no,' added a fourth; 'diable! don't trouble us with prisoners, M. Schreckhorn; they do nothing but eat up the rations.'

They proceeded, however, to drag me towards the tower of Phalsbourg, and then I shuddered when contemplating all I might suffer there, and at the idea of confronting De Bitche when flushed by pain and vengeance. But aware that to resist seven well-armed men would be an act of folly, I could only glance hopelessly at the horsemen, who were now galloping along the valley, obviously with a view to cut off Schreckhorn and his six stragglers.

'Here come those ten cavaliers of the enemy's horse,' said a petardier; 'and this fellow grows heavier at every step.'

'Unless we shoot him and run, we shall be cut off, M. le Capitaine,' urged a second.

'And they are Gardes Ecossais, by all that is infernal!'

'These fellows will follow us up to the very gate of Phalsbourg,' said Schreckhorn.

'Bah! I have a petard at the foot of yonder tree, M. le Capitaine,' said the first speaker; 'let us tie our moucharde to it, fire the match, and leave him to his friends, who may pick up his pieces at leisure.'

'A brilliant idea, comrade!' growled Schreckhorn, whose eyes flashed with rage and excitement at the unexpected danger in which his parley with me had placed him, though his native love of bloodshed, cruelty, and novelty were tickled by the barbarous proposition of the petardier, whose words were acted upon in a moment. 'Sang Dieu! quick, quick; your straps and the petard; we have not a moment to lose; these fellows will be on us!'

I had scarcely time for breath or thought before my hands and feet were secured by straps, while the petard was bound to my breast; and now, lest the reader may not know what this warlike invention is, I shall describe it briefly.

A petard is made of gun-metal, screwed upon a board two feet square, and holds usually about fifteen pounds of powder; a vent is screwed into the hole, by which the iron case is filled. When fired, its explosion will blow to shreds the strongest gates and palisades. The French Huguenots were the first who invented them, and by their means captured the city of Cahors in 1579.

A pistol was snapped, and the slow-match lighted, and then, with a brutal laugh, M. Schreckhorn and his soldiers rushed own the hill towards Phalsbourg, looking back ever and anon watch the expected explosion.

Though hardened by war, and familiarised to its dangers, this petard--this frightful engine of death--pressing like a charged bomb upon my breast, filled me with a horror too great for description, for realisation, or for utterance, and existence became a stupor! I was unable to move--to cry out--to breathe! I felt nothing--saw nothing! I knew nothing! all my thoughts and feelings, if I possessed them, were absorbed in one overwhelming sense of panic! I was surrounded by a black and wavering chaos, amid which I saw a brilliant and luminous spark, close to my face, consuming, shrinking, and expanding; this was the touchpaper, communicating with the petard to which I was tied.

Suddenly the sense of danger and immediate death became to great for my whole nervous system. Bound as I was, powerless, paralysed, like one amid a crushing nightmare, a cry at last escaped me! Then, though fettered neck, hand, and heel, I rose to my feet, and in a wild endeavour to free myself from the dreadful engine of destruction to which I was bound, rolled over the cliff, and fell headlong through the air--down--down--I knew not how far!

There was a cold splash--a shock--as I cleft the waters of a river; then there was darkness, and a rushing, bubbling sound, as they closed over me; then came blinding light, as I rose again to the surface; darkness again, and a whirling of all the senses, as I sank the second time; and with that sinking a deep, deep sleep seemed to come upon me, and I remembered no more.