The Companions of Jehu, Alexandre Dumas [romance book recommendations TXT] 📗

of Montbar. As they advanced, the leader noticed a smell of smoke which alarmed him. At the same time gleams of light began to flicker on the granite walls at the angles of the path, showing that something strange was happening at the opening of the grotto.

“I believe those scoundrels are smoking us out,” exclaimed Montbar.

“I fear so,” replied Adler.

“They think we are foxes.”

“Oh!” replied the same voice, “they shall know by our claws that we are lions.”

The smoke became thicker and thicker, the light more and more vivid.

They turned the last corner. A pile of dried wood had been lighted in the quarry about fifty feet from the entrance, not for the smoke, but for the light it gave. By the blaze of that savage flame the weapons of the dragoons could be seen gleaming at the entrance of the grotto.

Ten steps in advance of the men stood an officer, waiting. He was leaning on his carbine, not only exposed to attack, but apparently courting it. It was Roland. He was easily recognized. He had flung his cap away, his head was bare, and the fitful light of the flames played upon his features. But that which should have cost him his life saved him. Montbar recognized him and stepped backward.

“Roland de Montrevel!” he said. “Remember Morgan’s injunction.”

“Yes,” replied the other Companions, in muffled tones.

“And now,” said Montbar, “let us die, but dearly!”

And he sprang forward into the space illuminated by the fire, and discharged one barrel of his gun at the dragoons, who replied with a volley.

It would be impossible to relate all that followed. The grotto was filled with smoke, which the flame of each weapon pierced like a flash of lightning. The two bands clinched and fought hand to hand, pistols and daggers serving them in turn. At the noise of the struggle, the gendarmes poured in from the rear—few more demons added to this fight of devils—but the groups of friends and enemies were so confused they dared not fire. They struggled in the red and lurid atmosphere, fell down and rose again; a roar of rage was heard, then a cry of agony—the death sigh of a man. The survivor sought another man, and the struggle was renewed.

This work of death lasted fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty. At the end of those twenty minutes twenty corpses could be counted in the grotto of Ceyzeriat. Thirteen were those of the gendarmes and the dragoons, nine belonged to the Companions of Jehu. Five of the latter were still living; overwhelmed by numbers, crippled by wounds, they were taken alive. The gendarmes and the dragoons, twenty-five in number, surrounded them.

The captain of gendarmes had his arm shattered, the colonel of dragoons was wounded in the thigh. Roland alone, covered with blood that was not his own, had not a scratch. Two of the prisoners were so grievously wounded that it was impossible for them to walk, and the soldiers were obliged to carry them on an improvised litter. Torches were lighted, and the whole troop, with the prisoners, took the road to the town.

As they were leaving the forest to branch into the high-road, the gallop of a horse was heard. It came on rapidly. “Go on,” said Roland; “I will stay here and find out what this means.”

It was a rider, who, as we have said, was advancing at full speed.

“Who goes there?” cried Roland, raising his carbine when the rider was about twenty paces from him.

“One more prisoner, Monsieur de Montrevel,” replied the rider, “I could not be in at the fight, but I will at least go to the scaffold. Where are my friends?”

“There, sir,” replied Roland, who had recognized, not the face, but the voice of the rider, a voice which he now heard for the third time. As he spoke, he pointed to the little group in the centre of the soldiers who were making their way along the road from Ceyzeriat to Bourg.

“I am glad to see that no harm has befallen you, M. de Montrevel,” said the young man, with great courtesy; “I assure you it gives me much happiness.” And spurring his horse, he was beside the soldiers and gendarmes in a few strides. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said, springing from his horse, “I claim a place among my three friends, the Vicomte de Jayat, the Comte de Valensolle, and the Marquis de Ribier.”

The three prisoners gave a cry of admiration and held out their hands to their friend. The two wounded men lifted themselves up on their litters, and murmured: “Well done, Sainte-Hermine, well done!”

“I do believe, God help me!” cried Roland, “that those brigands will have the nobler side of the affair!”