"Fire! fire!" shouted Marc.

And the partisans, now supported by Frantz's troop, regained, under Hullin's directions, the positions which they had for the moment lost.

The whole of the hill-side was soon covered with dead and wounded. It was then four in the evening; night was approaching. The last ball fell into the street of Grandfontaine, and rebounding on the angle of the pavement, knocked down the chimney of the "Red Ox."

About six hundred men perished that day: there were, of course, many mountaineers among them, but the greater number were "kaiserlichs."

Had it not been for the fire of Marc Dives's cannon, all would have been lost; the partisans were not one against ten, and the enemy had already begun to gain on the trenches.

CHAPTER XVI

PAINFUL SCENES

The Germans, huddled together in Grandfontaine, fled in crowds in the direction of Framont, on foot and on horseback, hurrying, dragging along their ammunition-wagons, strewing the road with their knapsacks, and looking behind as though they feared to find the partisans at their heels.

In Grandfontaine they destroyed everything out of sheer revenge; they smashed in doors and windows, maltreated the people, demanded food and drink indiscriminately. Their shouts and curses, the commands of their officers, the murmurs of the townsfolk, the artillery rolling over the bridge of Framont, the shrill cries of the wounded horses, were heard as a confused murmur at the breastworks.

The hill-side was covered with arms, shakos, and dead; in fact, with all the signs of a great rout. In front was Marc Dives's cannon directed down the valley, ready to fire in case of a fresh attack.

All was finished, and finished well. Yet no shout of triumph rose from the intrenchments: the losses of the mountaineers, in this last a.s.sault, had been too great for that. There was something solemn in this silence succeeding to the uproar; all these men who had escaped the carnage, looked grave, as though astonished to see each other again. Some few called a friend, others a brother, who did not answer; and then they searched for them in the trenches, along the breastworks, or on the slopes, calling "Jacob, Philip, is it thou?"

Night came on; and the gray shadow creeping over everything, added mystery to these fearful scenes. The people came and went among the wrecks of the battle without recognizing each other.

Materne, having wiped his bayonet, called hoa.r.s.ely to his boys:--"Kasper! Frantz!" and seeing them approach in the darkness, he asked, "Is that you?"

"Yes, we are here."

"Are you safe? are you wounded?"

"No."

The old hunter's voice became hoa.r.s.er and more trembling still:--"Then we are all three united once more," said he, in a low tone.

And he, whom none would have thought to be so tender, embraced his sons warmly. They could hear his chest heaving with suppressed sobs. They were both much moved, and said to each other,--"We never dreamed that he loved us so much!"

But the old man, soon recovering from his emotion, called out, "It was a hard day, though, my boys. Let us have something to drink, for I am thirsty."

Then, casting one last look on the dark slopes, and seeing that Hullin had placed sentinels at short distances apart, they proceeded toward the farmhouse.

As they were picking their way carefully through the trenches, enc.u.mbered with the dead, they heard a stifled voice, which said to them, "Is it thou, Materne?"

"Ah! forgive me, my poor old Rochart," replied the hunter, bending over him, "if I touched thee. What, art thou still here?"

"Yes, I cannot get away, for I have no longer any legs to carry me."

They remained silent for a moment, when the old wood-cutter continued,--"Thou wilt tell my wife that in a bag behind the closet, there are five pieces of six. I have saved them up, in case we either of us fell ill. I no longer need them."

"That is to say--that is to say--But thou mayst recover still, my poor old fellow. We will carry thee away."

"No; it is not worth the trouble: I cannot last more than an hour. It would only make me linger."

Materne, without answering, signed to Kasper to place his carbine with his own, so as to form a stretcher, and Frantz placed the old wood-cutter upon them, notwithstanding his moans. In this way they arrived at the farm.

All the wounded who during the combat had had strength to drag themselves to the ambulance were now a.s.sembled there; and Doctor Lorquin and his comrade Dubois, who had arrived during the day, had work enough to do. But all was far from being over yet.

As Materne, his boys, and Rochart were traversing the dark alley under the lantern, they heard to their left a cry which made their blood run cold, and the old wood-cutter, half dead, called out, "Why do you take me there? I will not go; I will not have anything done to me."

"Open the door, Frantz," said Materne, his face streaming with perspiration. "Open it! Be quick!"

Frantz having pushed open the door, they beheld in the centre of the low room with its large brown beams, Colard's son stretched out full length on a great kitchen-table, a man at each arm and a bucket beneath him. Doctor Lorquin, his shirtsleeves turned up to his elbows, and a short saw in his hand, was cutting off the poor fellow's leg, while Dubois stood by with a large sponge. The blood trickled into the pail.

Colard was as white as death.

Catherine Lefevre was there with a roll of lint on her arm. She seemed calm; but her teeth were clinched, and she fastened her eyes on the ground as though determined to witness nothing.

"It is finished," said the doctor, turning round; and perceiving the new-comers, "Ha! it is you, Father Rochart!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, it is I; but I will not let any one touch me. I would rather die as I am."

The doctor lifted up a candle, looked at him, and made a grimace.

"It is time to see to you, my poor old fellow. You have lost much blood, and if we wait longer it will be too late."

"So much the better! I have suffered enough in my life."

"As you like. Let us pa.s.s on to another."

He cast his eyes over a long line of straw mattresses at the end of the room; the two last were empty, but covered with blood. Materne and Kasper laid the old wood-cutter down on the last, while Dubois, approaching another wounded man, said, "Nicolas, it is thy turn!"

Nicolas Cerf raised his pale face and his eyes glistened with fright.

"Let him have a gla.s.s of brandy," said the doctor.

"No, I would rather smoke my pipe."

"Where is thy pipe?"

"In my waistcoat pocket."

"Good, I have found it. And the tobacco?"

"In my trousers."

"All right. Fill his pipe, Dubois. He is a plucky fellow; it gives one pleasure to see a man like that. We are going to take off thy arm in a trice."

"Is there no way of saving it, Monsieur Lorquin, to bring up my poor children? It is their only resource."

"No; it is no use; the bone is smashed. Light the pipe, Dubois. Now, Nicolas, smoke away."