But the large public thing we had to remark is this:  That the Twentieth of September, 1792, was a raw morning covered with mist; that from three in the morning Sainte-Menehould, and those Villages and homesteads we know of old were stirred by the rumble of artillery-wagons, by the clatter of hoofs, and many footed tramp of men:  all manner of military, Patriot and Prussian, taking up positions, on the Heights of La Lune and other Heights; shifting and shoving,—­seemingly in some dread chess-game; which may the Heavens turn to good!  The Miller of Valmy has fled dusty under ground; his Mill, were it never so windy, will have rest to-day.  At seven in the morning the mist clears off:  see Kellermann, Dumouriez’ second in command, with ’eighteen pieces of cannon,’ and deep-serried ranks, drawn up round that same silent Windmill, on his knoll of strength; Brunswick, also, with serried ranks and cannon, glooming over to him from the height of La Lune; only the little brook and its little dell now parting them.

So that the much-longed-for has come at last!  Instead of hunger and dysentery, we shall have sharp shot; and then!—­Dumouriez, with force and firm front, looks on from a neighbouring height; can help only with his wishes, in silence.  Lo, the eighteen pieces do bluster and bark, responsive to the bluster of La Lune; and thunder-clouds mount into the air; and echoes roar through all dells, far into the depths of Argonne Wood (deserted now); and limbs and lives of men fly dissipated, this way and that.  Can Brunswick make an impression on them?  The dull-bright Seigneurs stand biting their thumbs:  these Sansculottes seem not to fly like poultry!  Towards noontide a cannon-shot blows Kellermann’s horse from under him; there bursts a powder-cart high into the air, with knell heard over all:  some swagging and swaying observable;—­Brunswick will try!  “Camarades,” cries Kellermann, “Vive la Patria!  Allons vaincre pour elle, Let us conquer.”  “Live the Fatherland!” rings responsive, to the welkin, like rolling-fire from side to side:  our ranks are as firm as rocks; and Brunswick may recross the dell, ineffectual; regain his old position on La Lune; not unbattered by the way.  And so, for the length of a September day,—­with bluster and bark; with bellow far echoing!  The cannonade lasts till sunset; and no impression made.  Till an hour after sunset, the few remaining Clocks of the District striking Seven; at this late time of day Brunswick tries again.  With not a whit better fortune!  He is met by rock-ranks, by shouts of Vive la Patrie; and driven back, not unbattered.  Whereupon he ceases; retires ‘to the Tavern of La Lune;’ and sets to raising a redoute lest he be attacked!