Chapter 29

"Thus doth the ever-changing course of thing!
Run a perpetual circle, ever turning;
And that same day, that highest glory brings,
Brings us to the point of back returning."

DANIEL,

In scenes like that just related, it is not easy to collect details. All
that was ever known, beyond the impetuous manner of the assault in which
the ruins were carried, was in the dire result. Half the French on the
islet were weltering in their blood, and the surface of the rocks was
well sprinkled with enemies who had not been more fortunate. It had been
a desperate onset, in which mortification increased natural intrepidity,
which had been nobly resisted, but in which numbers had necessarily
prevailed. Among the English slain was Sir Frederick Dashwood himself;
he lay about a yard from his own gig, with a ball directly through his
head. Griffin was seriously hurt, but Clinch was untouched, on the low
rampart, waving an English Jack--after having hauled down a similar
emblem of the French. His boat had first touched the rock, her crew had
first reached the ruin, and, of all in her, he himself had taken the
lead. Desperately had he contended for Jane and a commission, and this
time Providence appeared to smile on his efforts. As for Raoul, he lay
in front of his own rampart, having rushed forward to meet the party of
Clinch, and had actually crossed swords with his late prisoner, when a
musket-ball, fired by the hands of McBean, traversed his body.

"_Courage, mes braves! en avant!_" he was heard to shout, as he leaped
the low wall to repel the invaders--and when he lay on the hard rock,
his voice was still strong enough to make itself heard,
crying--"_Lieutenant--nom de Dieu--sauve mon Feu-Follet!"_

It is probable that Pintard would not have stirred, even at this order,
had not the English ships been seen, at that instant, coming round
Campanella, with a leading westerly wind. The flap of canvas was audible
near by, too, and turning, he saw the Michael falling off under her
foresail, and already gathering steerage-way. Not a soul was visible on
her decks, Ithuel, who steered, lying so close as to be hid by her
waist-cloths. The hawsers of the lugger were cut, and le Feu-Follet
started back like an affrighted steed. It was only to let go the brails,
and her foresail fell. Light, and feeling the breeze, which now came in
strong puffs, she shot out of the little bay, and wore short round on
her keel. Two or three of the English boats attempted to follow, but it
was idle. Winchester, who now commanded, recalled them, saying that it
remained for the ships to perform their task. The day had been too
bloody, indeed, to think of more than securing the present success, and
of