In some places, the branches of half broken trees strewed the ground, whilst their mutilated trunks, perforated with shot, remained as melancholy relics of their former beauty. Swords and helmets, mingled with overturned wagons and military utensils of all kinds, were scattered in wild disorder around. The earth, ploughed up by the cannonballs in deep furrows, save where the ridges had been beaten flat by the feet of the combatants, looked wild and uneven as the waves of the mighty ocean arrested in the moment of tempest. Blood lay in pools upon the ground; and clotted gore, mingled horribly with remnants of human bones and brains, hung to the still standing bushes, disfiguring the fair face of nature.
Pauline shuddered, and turned eagerly to the other side of the landscape, which commanded a view of the town. Here still, however, she found nothing but war and death. It was the moment when the explosion of the petard set fire to the wooden bulwark; and Roderick and Edric leaped through the flames upon the beach. The bright glare of the blazing bulwarks relieved strongly their dark figures, and Pauline distinctly saw and recognized them for a moment, though the next they were lost in a cloud of smoke. She screamed, and grasped her father’s arm in convulsive agony. M. de Mallet was scarcely less agitated than herself; and, as the smoke cleared away, they saw distinctly through its opening volumes, Roderick and Edric upon the breach, opposed by a crowd of Spaniards, and fighting with inveterate fury. “Roderick is on his knees,” cried M. de Mallet. “But see! he rises suddenly, and plunges the Spaniard, who had raised his sword to cut him down, into the flames.” Pauline did not speak; but she gasped for breath, and held her father’s arm yet more tightly than before. Edric was now seen grappling hand to hand with a Spaniard, when the fire and smoke closed upon him and hid him from their view. The next instant, a tremendous crash was heard, and loud shouts, followed by a rush of men; it was the sortie of the besieged.
“Oh, heavens!” cried Pauline, turning pale, and resting her head upon her father’s shoulder, “war is a dreadful thing.”
“You are faint, my child,” replied M. de Mallet; “this is no fitting scene for you. Shall we go in?”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Pauline feebly; “I cannot leave the spot.” Here shouts of “Roderick! Roderick forever! Roderick and glory!” rang in their ears. Pauline shuddered; a faint sickness crept over her; the scene seemed to swim before her eyes; and she would have fallen, but for the supporting arm of her father. At this moment, some soldiers, carrying a bier, passed at a little distance from the tent. Upon it lay the body of an officer; his head hung back, his long thick hair was matted with gore, and a ghastly wound gaped on his uncovered breast. Pauline could bear no more—she thought it was Edric, and she fell fainting into her father’s arms.
M. de Mallet bore her back into the tent, and as soon as she was sufficiently recovered to enable him to think of anything but herself, he dispatched one of the soldiers, appointed to attend them, to ascertain if the Irish monarch had escaped. The soldier did not return; and M. de Mallet, too impatient to remain in his tent, sallied forth to learn the news himself. Scarcely was he gone, however, when the soldier’s wife, whom he had called to the assistance of Pauline, perceived the town was on fire, Pauline’s agitation now became excessive; she trembled in every limb, and listened till the sense of hearing seemed agony. She could not comprehend the cause of the noise and bustle made by the citizens, as they came crowding into the camp; she looked forth, but the throng of half naked men, women, and children, that came hurrying along, seemed inexplicable; she stopped a woman, who, half dressed, had her clothes tucked up in one hand, whilst with the other she led two half naked children—“What is the matter?” asked she. “Roderick!” cried the woman bewildered in her grief, “God bless the noble Roderick!”
“Where are you going?” demanded Pauline of two young men, bearing between them a bed containing their sick father.
“Roderick!” shouted the pious Spaniards. “Heaven in its mercy, help Roderick!”
Pauline was proceeding in her inquiries, though without the smallest hope of receiving a direct reply, the hearts and minds of the Spaniards being so full of Roderick, that no other name could find utterance from their lips, when she perceived her father.
“My dearest father!” cried she, running to him; “now I shall know all! What is the matter?”
“Roderick, the noble Roderick is safe!” repeated M. de Mallet. Pauline was chagrined—she longed to hear of Edric, and she envied, for his sake, the renown of the Irish hero. “Can you, too, speak of nothing but Roderick?” said she, somewhat reproachfully.
“And of whom else should I speak?” replied her father. “Who else deserves to be spoken of? for surely he is the bravest! the noblest of men!”
“I do not doubt it,” observed Pauline coldly.
“Every tongue utters his praise—every breast swells with gratitude at his goodness—and every hand is raised to Heaven in prayers on his behalf;” continued M. de Mallet.
“Have there been many persons killed?” asked Pauline.
“How can you ask so foolish a question?” replied her father. “Do you not see the ground heaped with slain?”
“But persons of note, I mean.”
“Let me see; I think they said there were the Generals H⸺ and M⸺, and Counts L⸺, P⸺ and T⸺.”
“Oh!” groaned Pauline impatiently.
“And besides, I think they say Mr. Montagu is seriously wounded.”
“I feared so!” sighed Pauline, “he is so brave.”
“Yes—everyone says he is brave, and implores blessings upon his name—for he saved the life of Roderick!”
Pauline’s countenance had beamed with triumph at the commencement of this sentence; but it rather fell at the conclusion. She did not quite like
