Yet it was not the true Marseillaise which was being sung on the heights; it was the Marseillaise Vendéenne, whose words, wedded indeed to the same famous air, expressed far other sentiments. With their rosaries round their necks the peasants were chanting lustily in their patois. “O sainte Vierge Marie Condis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs : Contre ine sequelle annemie Combats avec tes zélateurs ! . . .” And after they had sung they turned and were swallowed up in the woods whence they had appeared. Masked by these woods, they were going to turn De Marcé’s position down below. Yet it was seven o’clock of the March evening before this fact burst upon the Republicans. Then, with the first hidden and deadly fire from the lower woods, a whole column of National Guards posted on their left flank deserted their posts. De Marcé, taken by surprise, withdrew the bulk of his forces to the farther bridge at Gravereau, leaving, however, a strong detachment on the bridge nearer to the Royalists, and throwing out a column on his other flank. About twenty minutes after the first fusillade Gilbert found himself with his little troop where the woods joined the water meadows, a little to the left of the nearer bridge, still lined with grenadiers and emitting a constant though ill-directed fire. He had discarded his horse, preferring to be as his men were, and fancying that they followed him better unmounted. But Louis, combining as he did the function of aide-de-camp with that of second in command, could not be deprived of his, and, a little way along the rank of kneeling men he stood, bridle in hand, directing their fire. The woods, black behind them in the fading light, prevented the Vendeans from being picked out by the Blues on the bridge, who were, moreover, firing much too high. Hardly a man had been hit. Yet it was slow and trying work, and the Royalists were very short of muskets. If only they could carry the bridge! But Gilbert could not attempt it on his own responsibility, and Royrand was on the other side of the river, two meadows’ width away. He would have to send some one across the danger zone, and Louis was the only person to send—Louis who had in him as it was far too much of the lust of danger, and whom he hesitated to send . . . for other reasons. Yet, after all, he had no right to indulge private considerations. He summoned his cousin. “Ride as hard as you can,” he said, “to M. de Royrand, and ask him whether we shall not try to carry the bridge from here. Tell him that we are very short of ammunition and muskets but have plenty of scythes and pikes, and that our position is good for such an attempt. The Blues, as any one can see, are demoralised already.” “Excellent!” commented Louis, and he sprang with alacrity to the saddle. “You may trust me to persuade him! And as I come back I will wave my handkerchief if he consents.”