But, just as he predicted,
he'll rise, his old self again."
Captain de Rougemont hurried away, and John was left alone in the midst
of a great army. He stood before Lannes' tent, which was in the midst of
a grassy and rather elevated opening, and he heard once more the
infinite sounds made by two hundred thousand armed men, blending into
one vast, fused note.
The army, too, was moving, or getting ready to move. Batteries of the
splendid French artillery passed before him, squadrons of horsemen
galloped by, and regiments of infantry followed. It all seemed confused,
aimless to the eye, but John knew that nevertheless it was proceeding
with order and method, directed by a master mind.
Often trumpets sounded and the motion of the troops seemed to quicken.
Now he beheld men from the lands of the sun, the short, dark, fierce
soldiers of the Midi, youths of Marseilles and youths of the first Roman
province, whose native language was Provencal and not French. He
remembered the men of the famous battalion who had marched from
Marseilles to Paris singing Rouget de Lisle's famous song, and giving it
their name, while they tore down an ancient kingdom. Doubtless, spirits
no less ardent and fearless than theirs were here now.
He saw the Arabs in turbans and flowing robes, and black soldiers from
Senegal, and seeing these men from far African deserts he knew that
France was rallying her strength for a supreme effort. The German
Empire, with the flush of unbroken victory in war after war, could
command the complete devotion of its sons, but the French Republic,
without such triumphs as yet, could do as well.
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