as
if sold to Austria; gallops out pellmell in chase of its Inspector. And
so they spur, and the Inspector spurs; careering, with noise and jingle,
up the valley of the River Meurthe, towards Luneville and the
midday sun: through an astonished country; indeed almost their own
astonishment.

What a hunt, Actaeon-like;--which Actaeon de Malseigne happily gains! To
arms, ye Carabineers of Luneville: to chastise mutinous men, insulting
your General Officer, insulting your own quarters;--above all
things, fire soon, lest there be parleying and ye refuse to fire!
The Carabineers fire soon, exploding upon the first stragglers of
Mestre-de-Camp; who shrink at the very flash, and fall back hastily
on Nanci, in a state not far from distraction. Panic and fury: sold
to Austria without an if; so much per regiment, the very sums can be
specified; and traitorous Malseigne is fled! Help, O Heaven; help, thou
Earth,--ye unwashed Patriots; ye too are sold like us!

Effervescent Regiment du Roi primes its firelocks, Mestre-de-Camp
saddles wholly: Commandant Denoue is seized, is flung in prison with a
'canvass shirt' (sarreau de toile) about him; Chateau-Vieux bursts up
the magazines; distributes 'three thousand fusils' to a Patriot people:
Austria shall have a hot bargain. Alas, the unhappy hunting-dogs, as
we said, have hunted away their huntsman; and do now run howling and
baying, on what trail they know not; nigh rabid!

And so there is tumultuous march of men, through the night; with halt
on the heights of Flinval, whence Luneville can be seen all illuminated.
Then there is parley, at four in the morning; and reparley; finally
there is agreement: the Carabineers give in; Malseigne is surrendered,
with apologies on all sides. After weary confused hours, he is even got
under way; the Lunevillers all turning out, in the idle Sunday, to see
such departure: home-going of mutinous Mestre-de-Camp with its Inspector
captive. Mestre-de-Camp accordingly marches; the Lunevillers look.
See! at the corner of the first street, our Inspector bounds off
again, bull-hearted as he is; amid the slash of sabres, the crackle
of musketry; and escapes, full gallop, with only a ball lodged in his
buff-jerkin. The Herculean man! And yet it is an escape to no purpose.
For the Carabineers, to whom after the hardest Sunday's ride on record,
he has come circling back, 'stand deliberating by their nocturnal
watch-fires;' deliberating of Austria, of traitors,