Part 60 (1/2)

'I have sent a dozen times.'

And he sent as many times more; while we, a mere handful, tired and worn and famished, but every man with a hero's thoughts, leaned against the breastwork, and gazed down into the plain, where, under the smoke, pigmy troops rushed to and fro, and Nuremberg's fate hung in the balance. In an hour it would be night. And still no reinforcements came, no cannon.

Thrice the enemy tried to drive us out. But the neck was narrow, and, pressed along their front by three a.s.saults, they came on half-heartedly and fell back lightly; and we held it. In the mean time, it became more and more clear that elsewhere the day was going against us. Until night fell, and through long hours of darkness, forlorn after forlorn was flung against the heights--in vain. Regiment after regiment, the core of the Swedish army, came on undaunted, only to be repulsed with awful loss; with the single exception of the Waldgrave's little sconce not a foot of the hill was captured.

About nine o'clock reinforcements reached us, and some food, but no guns. Two hours later the King drew sullenly back into his lines, and the attack ceased. Even then we looked to see the fight resumed with the dawn; we looked still for victory and revenge. We could not believe that all was over. But towards three o'clock in the morning rain fell, rendering the slopes slippery and impa.s.sable; and with the first flush of sunrise came an order from Prince Bernard directing us to withdraw.

Perhaps the defeat fell as lightly on the Waldgrave as on any man, though to him it was a huge disappointment. For he alone of all had made his footing good. I thought that it was that which made him look so cheerful; but while the rank and file were falling in, he came to me.

'Well, Martin,' he said. 'We are both veterans now.'

I laughed. The rain had ceased. The sun was getting up, and the air was fresh. Far off in the plain the city sparkled with a thousand gems. I thought of Marie, I thought of life, and I thanked G.o.d that I was alive.

'I have an errand for you,' he continued, a laugh in his eyes. 'Come and see what we took yesterday, besides this sconce.'

At the back of the work were two low huts, that had perhaps been guardrooms or officers' quarters. He led the way into one, bending his head as he pa.s.sed under the low lintel.

'An odd place,' he said.

'Yes, my lord.'

'Yes, but I mean--an odd place for what I found here,' he rejoined.

'Look, man.'

There were two low bunks in the hut, and on these and on the floor lay a medley of soldiers' cloaks, pouches, weapons, and ammunition. There was blood on the one wall and the door was shattered, and in a corner, thrown one on another, were two corpses. The Waldgrave took no heed of these, but stepped to the corner bunk and drew away a cloak that lay on it. Something--the sound in that place scared me as a cannon-shot would not have--began to wail. On the bed, staring at us between tears and wonder, lay a child.

'So!' I said, and stared at it.

'Do you know it?' the Waldgrave asked.

'Know it? No,' I answered.

'Are you sure?' he replied, smiling. 'Look again.'

'Not I!' I said. 'How did it come here? A child! A baby! It is horrible.'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'We found it in this hut; in that bed. A man to whom we gave quarter said it was----'

'No!' I shouted.

'Yes,' he answered, nodding.

'Tzerclas' child! Count Leuchtenstein's child! Do you mean it?' I cried.

He nodded. 'Tzerclas' child, the man said. The other's child, I guess.

Nay, I am certain. It knows your girl's name.'