The song had an ominous
ring. It was one of the Huguenot war hymns sung in the army of our Henri:
"With pricking of steel
Our foe we have sped,
We've peppered his heel
With pellets of lead,
And the battles we win are the gifts of the Lord,
Who pointeth our cannon and guideth our sword.
We fire and we charge and there's nothing can bar
When we fight in the track of the King of Navarre.
Then down, down, down with the Duke of Guise!
Death, death, death to our enemies!
And glory, we sing, to God and our King,
And death to the foes of Navarre!"
The melody was grim and stirring. The men's voices vibrated with war-like
wrath. They were impatient for battles, charges, the kind of fighting
that is done between great armies on the open field, when there is the
roar and smoke of cannon, the rattle of small firearms, the clash of
steel, the cries of captains, the shrieks and groans of wounded, the
plenteous spilling of blood. They were hungry for carnage.
"There is no cause to shudder, mademoiselle," said I, perceiving the
effect that the song had on her; "we are far away from fighting. There is
no danger here."
"There may be dangers of which you do not guess," she answered.
As if to verify her words, a sudden, sharp cry broke the stillness. It
came from the forest path by which we had arrived at the chateau. It was
the voice of one of my sentinels challenging a newcomer.
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