On Saturday (January 22d) six thousand men left the city, marching with a firm step, not under their peculiar flags (for each city had its own), but under that of Berne alone, a symbol at once of strength and unity. A hundred cavalry and sixteen pieces of cannon accompanied the infantry. They all wore a white cross on a red field; the old mark of the crusaders was their only uniform. Haller's words had borne fruit. Those children of the mountains went to the help of their brothers with enthusiasm and with faith. The noble Nägueli rode at their head. He desired to make an evangelical and Helvetic country of the beautiful valley of the Leman. He was serious and silent, for he was meditating on the means of freeing Geneva completely, but at the cost of as little blood as possible. The soldiers marched after him, active and joyful, in the midst of a crowd of men, women, and children collected from the villages round about; and those bold Helvetians, with heads erect, made the road echo with their songs of war. The Chronicle of old Switzerland has preserved them for us: Be silent, people all, and listen to my lay. Sing, comrades, raise to heaven the well-known strain, For the bear has left his mountain den, and following in his train Stalk terror and alarm to all who try to bar his way. With eager footsteps on he goes, the weeping ones to save, Whom all the world hath left to sink unaided to the grave. My gallant, gallant bear! God hath raised thee from the dead; Bound in his chains, the scorn of men, the pope long held thee fast, But Christ hath snapped thy bonds, and the night of slavery is passed. Once more the light of day falls from heaven upon thy head. What a crowd of joyous cubs swarms around thee in thy den, For wondrous is the love God hath shown thee among men. Cheer up, old mountain bear! and with head uplifted high, Let him who tries to stop thee have a care! Woe, woe to him that hateth thee, woe to the knaves who fear To follow where thou leadest—to Rome and victory, To dethrone the king of liars, at the hypocrites to laugh, And their idolatries to scatter to the winds of heaven like chaff. I await thee in the mountains, when the bloody strife is o'er, And thou comest with the laurel wreath upon thy head; Thou shalt drink our mountain streams, grassy meads shall be thy bed, There thy wearied limbs shall rest, and thy heart be glad once more, He who fighteth for the faith, findeth glory at the last, And God shall crown the warrior for the dangers he has passed.[702] [Sidenote: THE ARMY AT MORAT.]