On the mountain-side nothing was to be seen but arms, shakos, and dead bodies; in short, all the signs of a great defeat. Opposite appeared the cannons taken by Marc Divès, pointed over the valley, and ready to fire in case of a fresh attack.
All was then over--quite over. And yet not a single cry of triumph rose from the entrenchments. The losses the mountaineers had sustained in this last assault had been too severe and cruel. There was something solemn in this deep silence succeeding to the tumult; and all those men who had escaped the carnage looked at one another with grave faces as if they were surprised at seeing each other. Some called to a friend, others to a brother, who did not answer. They would then begin to search in the trench, along the barricades, or on the ascent, crying as they did it, "Ho! Jacob, Philip!--is it you?"
And then night came, and its grey shadows spread over entrenchments and abyss, adding the horror of mystery to scenes already terrible enough.
Materne, after having wiped his bayonet, called his sons to him in hoarse accents:
And seeing forms approaching in the darkness, he began to ask:
The old huntsman's voice, usually so rough, trembled like a woman's.
"Here we are all three, then, together again!" said he, in a low tone.
And he, whom no one had ever accused of being softhearted, bestowed a hearty embrace upon his sons, who were greatly surprised by his emotion. They heard a sound in his breast as of inward sobbing; they were much moved by it, and said to themselves: "How he loves us! We should never have believed this!"
They themselves felt touched to the very quick.
But in a short time, the old man, recovering himself, exclaimed:
"All the same, this has been a tough day's work, boys. Let us go and have a cup of wine, for I'm thirsty."
Then casting a last look on the gloomy scene, and seeing the sentinels which Hullin, as he went by, had just posted at every thirty paces, they proceeded together towards the old farm.
They were crossing the trench, where the dead lay in heaps, lifting their feet whenever they felt them come in contact with anything soft, when they heard a stifled voice say:
"Ah, my poor old Rochart!--pardon, pardon!" replied the old huntsman, stooping down. "I touched you. What! are you there still?"