And Ernestine! I thought then of Ernestine--of her goodness and her beauty; of her father's wishes concerning that rough Reitre, Count Kœningheim; I writhed in my plaid at the thought of them, and grasped my dirk on recalling the conversation between Tilly and his ruffian follower.
By separation from Ernestine, the tender impression she had made upon me was increased--for such is the strength of imagination. This fancy or attachment I might doubtless have vanquished by an effort; but I had no reason to exert this effort, and so the fancy lingered in my breast, and strengthened there.
Raising myself on an elbow, I looked round. Near me a hundred men were sleeping in the darkness; but beyond, at the skirts of the wood, a strange glow appeared between the trees. Some distant town was perhaps in flames; but no, it grew redder, deeper, broader, and then came a crackling sound, with a strong smell of smoke and burning wood. On turning round, the same appearance met my eye on two opposite points; and the lights brightened so fast, that I could see the helmets of the sleepers close beside me shining in the yet distant gleam.
Our sentinels fired their muskets. A pang of horror and dismay shot through my heart.
"Up, up! gentlemen and comrades!" I exclaimed, starting to my feet; "to your arms--to your arms! In three places _the wood is on fire!_"
At this appalling cry, the whole company sprang to their feet and unpiled their arms.
"The Imperialists are upon us!" cried Lumsdaine.
"The four corners of the wood are on fire," added Hugh Rose, drawing his claymore.
"Iosa--Iosa!" shouted the soldiers; "here come the flames!"
"What matters it, Captain Rollo," said Phadrig Mhor, brandishing his Lochaber axe, and belting his plaid about his giant figure; "the cowards would smoke brave men like rats, but we will break through, and do as Conan did with the devil. If bad they give, they will get no better. Into your ranks, my brave lads--close in, close in!"
"Put your plaids above your bandoleers, or they will explode!" I exclaimed; "hammer-stall your locks and matches--follow me--forward!"
"Quick, Donald M'Vurich!" cried Phadrig, administering a cuff with his gauntlet to a Highlander who lingered to poke his dirk into an abandoned camp-kettle, in the faint hope of fishing out something that might be left; "into your ranks! _Is faide t-fhacail na t-fhéosag_! By the Holy Iron! your teeth are longer than your beard!"