Even beyond the gates I found crowds of people who had come thus far, loth to say the last farewell to their dear ones; but after a while I left the throng behind, and set my horse into a canter. Now and again I overtook a body of troops, marching cheerfully, and singing their favourite hymns. They, too, were tired of inaction, and eager to plunge into the strife.

With the falling of darkness I slackened my pace, riding carefully, listening for any unusual sounds, and peering into the gloom. I had not forgotten my former adventure, but nothing untoward happened, and shortly after midnight I drew rein at the gate of the town.

"Your business?" exclaimed the officer of the guard.

"I am from Rochelle, with a despatch for your commandant."

"From the Prince?"

"From the Admiral—it is all one."

The gate was opened, and, having dismounted, I led my horse forward by the bridle.

"You have had a dark ride, monsieur."

"But a safe one," I answered, laughing. "Where is the commandant to be found? He will not feel well pleased at being wakened from his sleep."

"Ah, you do not know him! He is like the owl, and sleeps only in the daylight. At other times he watches; he is going the rounds now, and will be with us in a few minutes. It will need a craftier leader than Anjou to take Saint Jean d'Angely by surprise! Ah, here is the commandant!"

A veteran soldier, with white moustaches, white hair, and grizzled beard! A strongly-built man of middle height, with resolute, determined face, and an air that betokened long years of command.

"A despatch from the Admiral, monsieur," I said, saluting and handing him the packet.

Tearing off the covering, he read the letter by the light of a torch, folded the paper, and put it away carefully. By his face one could not judge whether the information he had received was good or ill.

"You are from Rochelle?" he asked sharply.

"I have just ridden from there, monsieur."

"And are you returning?"

"No, monsieur. I am proceeding to Cognac."

"You have had a brisk ride, and your horse is in leed of rest. Come with me."

He conducted me to an inn, wakened the landlord, and did not leave until my horse was comfortably stabled, and preparations for a good supper were in progress. Then he said: "You will be starting early in the morning. Have a care on your journey to Cognac. Bodies of the enemy have been prowling around the district for some days."

"I thank you, monsieur. I was unaware they had ventured so far south."

"They are striking, I think, at Angouleme," he said; "I have sent a courier to Rochelle with the news. Good-night! And don't let the rascals snap you up."

The supper was an excellent one, the bed delightfully cosy and inviting, and my last thought was one of regret at having to leave it so soon. However, I turned out at the landlord's warning, made another hearty meal—these journeys were keen sharpeners of the appetite—and before the day was fairly awake had started in cheerful spirits for Cognac.



CHAPTER VIII

The Tragedy of Jarnac

What led to the dismal disaster that overtook us at the very opening of the campaign I cannot say. Some ascribe it to the rashness of the Prince, who was certainly a very impetuous leader; but it is ill work buffeting the dead, and profitless also. And if his fiery temper did, indeed, bring about the mischance, he exerted himself as a gallant gentleman to retrieve his error.

By great good fortune, as it appeared afterwards, I had carried my despatch safely to Cognac, and was now, after spending a night in the town, riding along the bank of the Charente in the direction of Angouleme. I had not encountered any of Anjou's troopers, though at Cognac it was strongly rumoured they were in the neighbourhood.

The day was cold and somewhat cloudy, the sun shining out only at intervals, and there was a suspicion of rain in the air. Partly to restore the circulation, and partly to ease my horse—for we were ascending a hill—I had dismounted, and was walking briskly along at the animal's side.

From the brow of the hill I had a clear view of the wide plain stretching before me. Huddled together in one corner was the cluster of houses forming the village of Jarnac, where I intended to break my journey. Presently, however, I caught sight of something which put all thought of food and rest out of my head. A body of cavalry had halted on the plain. Some of the men were lying down, some drinking from the brook, but scouts were stationed at a distance from the main body to give warning of any hostile approach.

"This is either Anjou or Conde," I thought, "and in any case it is necessary to discover which."

Still leading my horse, I crept down the hill, and advanced some distance across the plain, ready directly danger threatened to mount and ride. As soon, however, as I drew close enough to distinguish the scouts I saw they were friends, and went on boldly.

Where was Coligny? They did not know; they had parted company with the infantry some time previously. Leaving them, I proceeded to the main body, and in passing a group of cavaliers, heard my name called by a voice I recognized as Roger Braund's.

"Why are you wandering about here?" he asked.

"Faith," I laughed, "I might put that very same question to you! Where are Coligny and the troops? I did not expect to meet with half an army."

"Say, rather, a third; we have not a gun, nor even a man to carry a pike."

"But what does it mean?"

"Perhaps that I don't understand your mode of warfare. We have been marching and countermarching for hours, with no other result as yet than wearing out our animals; but I warrant the Prince has his reasons."

"If there is a man with brains in the enemy's council," said another Englishman, "we shall rejoin our infantry only in the next world. We are scarcely fifteen hundred strong, and I heard this morning that Anjou has at least three thousand."

"Two to one," I remarked carelessly, "the Prince has fought against even heavier odds. But——"

"Mount, mount, messieurs; Anjou is advancing!"

The scouts came galloping in with their warning; the cry was repeated on all sides; men running to their horses mounted hurriedly; officers shouted commands; in an instant all was activity.

"You showed little wisdom in stumbling on us to-day," said Roger. "You would have been better off with your own leader."

"At least I make one more!"

"Yes," he replied, "and a pity too. But come along, you will ride with us, and I promise we will not disgrace you. A fair field for a charge, Edward!" addressing one of his comrades.

"I would rather it were a pitched battle," replied the other; "with our numbers we can do no more than ride them down."

"The Prince! The Prince!" cried one, and presently Conde came riding along our ranks. He had opened his helmet; his face was full of high resolve, his eyes flashed fire.

"Gentlemen!" he exclaimed, "here is the chance for which we have waited. Let us begin the campaign with a victory, and we shall finish it the sooner."

We greeted his words with a cheer; the English shouted "Hurrah!" which sounded strangely in our ears, and every one gripped his sword firmly. For, in spite of cheers, and of brave looks, a desperate enterprise lay before us. Monseigneur's troops were at least twice as numerous as ours, and his men were seasoned soldiers.

But Conde gave us little time for reflection. "Forward! Forward!" We rose in our stirrups, and with a ringing cheer dashed at the foe. Like a wall of rock they stood, and our front rank went down before them. We withdrew a space, and once more sprang forward, but with the same result. The din was terrific; steel clashed against steel; horses neighed, men groaned in agony, or shouted in triumph.

And presently, above the tumult, we heard Conde's voice ringing high and clear, "To me, gentlemen! To me!"

He was in the thick of the press, cutting a passage for himself, while numbers of his bodyguard toiled after him.

"To the Prince!" cried Roger Braund in stentorian tones, "or he is lost!"

We tore our way like a parcel of madmen, striking right and left in blind fury, and not pausing to parry a blow. But the enemy surged round us like waves in a storm. They hammered us in front, in the rear, on both flanks; we fell apart into groups, each group fighting strenuously for dear life.

And in the midst of the fearful struggle there rose the ominous cry, "The Prince is down!"

For an instant both sides stood still, and then Roger Braund, crying, "To the rescue!" leaped straight at those in front of him. The noble band of Englishmen followed, the battle flamed up afresh; renewed cries of "Conde! Conde!" arose, but we listened in vain for the reply of our daring general.

"The Prince is down!" ran mournfully from man to man, and though some fought on with intrepid bravery, the majority were thrown into disorder by their leader's fall.

As for myself, I know not how the latter part of the battle went. Half-stunned by a heavy blow on my helmet, I clung mechanically to my horse, who carried me out of the press. As soon as my senses returned, I drew rein and gazed across the plain. It presented a melancholy sight. Here was a little band of wearied troopers spurring hard from the scene of conflict; there a man, dismounted and wounded, staggering along painfully, while some lay in the stillness of death. They had struck their first and last blow.

The battle, if battle it could be called, was over; the victors were busy securing their prisoners; nothing more could be done, and with a heavy heart I turned reluctantly away. Removing my helmet so that the fresh air might blow upon my aching temples, I rode on, picking up a companion here and there, until at last we formed a troop some fifty strong.

Hardly a word passed between us. We were angry, and ashamed; we had met with a bitter defeat; our leader was down, and no man knew even if he lived.

"Where is the Admiral?" I asked at last of the horseman at my side; "we must find the Admiral."

"I cannot say, but it is certain that when the news reaches him he will retreat"; then he relapsed into silence.

It was a dreary journey. We wandered on aimlessly and hopelessly for hours, and night had long since fallen when, by some lucky chance, we stumbled upon our infantry. We were not the first fugitives to arrive, and the camp was full of excitement.

I made my way straight to the Admiral's tent, and was instantly admitted. Several officers were already there, eagerly discussing the news, and they plied me with anxious questions. I could, however, tell them nothing fresh, and could throw no light on the fate of the Prince.

In the midst of the interview an officer brought in a wounded trooper. He was weak and faint from loss of blood, and, gallantly as he had held himself in the fray, he hung his head shamefacedly.

"You are from Jarnac?" said Coligny kindly; "can you tell us what has happened to your general?"

Every voice was hushed; the silence became painful as we listened with straining ears for the man's reply. Steadying himself, he gave his answer, and a deep groan burst from the assembled officers.

"The Prince is dead, my lord," he said slowly.

"Dead!" echoed our leader. "Killed in the battle?"

"Murdered in cold blood after the battle, my lord!"

"How?" cried Coligny, and never had I seen his face look so stern. "Think well, my man, before speaking. This is a serious statement to make."

"But a true one, my lord. I was not a yard away when the deed was done."

"Tell us all about it," said the Admiral, "for if this be true——" but here he checked himself.

"The Prince's horse fell, my lord, and he was thrown heavily. I tried to reach him, but failed."

"'Tis plain that you made a most gallant attempt!" remarked Coligny in kindly tones.

"I was knocked down, my lord, and I suppose thought to be dead! The Prince lay a yard or so away. He had taken off his helmet, and was talking to one of the enemy's officers. I heard him say, 'D'Argence, save my life and I will give you a hundred thousand crowns!"

"And what was the answer?"

"The officer promised, my lord, but just afterwards a fresh body of soldiers came galloping to that part of the field. Then the Prince said, 'There is Monseigneur's troop; I am a dead man!'"

"And what answered D'Argence?"

"He said, 'No, my lord, cover your face, and I will yet save you.' But he had not the chance. One of Monseigneur's officers"—we learned afterwards that it was Montesquieu, the captain of the Swiss guard—"shot the Prince in the back of the head!"

"And killed him instantly?"

"He just had strength to say, 'Now I trust you are content!'" replied the trooper, "and then he fell forward dead. They wrapped his body in a sheet and carried it off the field, but I do not know where."

"There is no possible chance of your having been mistaken?"

"None, my lord."

The chaplain, stepping forward, led the trooper from the tent to give him some food, and to bind up his wounds, while every one began discussing the mournful story he had told. In the midst of the talk I slipped out, eager to assure Felix of my safety, and to learn if Roger Braund had returned.

No one in the camp thought of sleep or rest; the soldiers had gathered together in knots, asking and answering questions, while from time to time a single horseman, or half a dozen in a body, trailed wearily into the lines. I met Felix coming toward the tent, and on seeing me he ran forward hastily.

"Is it really you, Edmond?" he cried; "are you hurt? How came you to be in the fight? One of the Englishmen told me you were there. 'Tis a sorry beginning to the campaign, eh? But, after all, 'tis but one dark spot on the sun. Come to our tent and tell us what has happened. There are a thousand rumours."

"Is Roger Braund not with his comrades?" I asked.

"No; there are a good many of the English still missing, but their friends are not anxious; they have lost their way perhaps, and we shall see them in the morning."

As nothing could be done, I accompanied Felix to the tent, where a number of our comrades speedily assembled. Felix gave me food, as I had eaten nothing for hours, and then I related my story.

"On the plain of Jarnac!" exclaimed one in surprise; "what was the Prince doing there?"

"I cannot say. Remember, I came upon them by mere chance."

"'Twas stupid folly!" exclaimed the speaker. "We aren't so strong that we can afford to divide our forces. Conde's rashness will ruin everything. One would think he was a hot-headed boy!"

"If Conde was in fault, he has paid dearly for his mistake," I remarked, and was greeted by cries of "What do you mean?" "Is the Prince hurt?" "Is he a prisoner?" "Speak out, Le Blanc!"

"The Prince, gentlemen," I replied slowly, "is dead; and if my account be true, most foully murdered."

"Conde dead!" cried one, "no, no; there must be some strange mistake!"

"I fear not, monsieur!" and, while they listened in breathless silence, I repeated the story which the wounded trooper had brought from the battle-field.

"Anjou shall have cause to rue this day!" said one, speaking with deadly earnestness. "If I meet him on foot or in the saddle, in victory or in defeat, I will not leave the ground till I have plunged my sword into his heart!"

"But Anjou was not the murderer!"

"An officer of his bodyguard, you said. Do you think he acted against his master's wishes? Pshaw! I tell you, Monseigneur is as much the murderer as if his own fingers had pulled the trigger!" and the murmur of applause from all who heard showed how fully they agreed with him.

When they left the tent, to retail the circumstances of the Prince's death, I was glad to lie down. I was still anxious concerning my English comrade, but Felix, who was too excited to sleep, promised to bring me any information that he could gather. My head ached terribly, but I managed to sleep, and for an hour or two at least I forgot the dismal tragedy that had occurred.

The whole camp was astir in the early morning, and my comrade brought me very welcome news. Roger had arrived during the night, with about a dozen fellow-countrymen, tired out but unwounded.

"I half expected he was dead," I said; "he was in the very thickest of the melee."

"Humph!" said Felix, "I warrant he fought with no greater bravery than Edmond Le Blanc! He is a gallant fellow enough, but you need not worship him as a hero."

I looked at my comrade with surprise, and I think he felt rather ashamed of his ungenerous speech, as he continued: "however, he is unhurt, which is the main thing. It seems we have lost quite a number of brave fellows besides Conde at Jarnac."

"I suppose the last of the stragglers are in?"

"Yes, and we strike camp almost immediately. Anjou is very kind to give us breathing time. According to our scouts, he is actually going to lay siege to Cognac."

"He will meet with a warm reception!"

"If the citizens can hold him only for a few weeks," said Felix, "all will go well. We are to be joined by strong reinforcements. The sun will shine again, Edmond."

Making my way through the camp after breakfast I came across Roger, who had Just risen from a brief sleep.

"I did not come to your tent last night," he said; "there was no need to disturb you. You are not much hurt?"

"No, but rather ashamed! We have begun badly."

"And shall therefore make a better ending," said he brightly. "Cheer up, Edmond, there is no disgrace in being beaten by twice our number. Jarnac is not the only field of battle in France."



CHAPTER IX

A Glorious Victory

The steady courage and resolute will of our great leader raised the spirits of every soldier under his command; the disaster at Jarnac became more and more a dream; the retreat to Niort was conducted without the least disorder or confusion. Every one trusted Coligny, and felt that under his rule all would go well.

And, as far as human skill and foresight could prevail, the Admiral deserved our confidence. All through the day, and far into the night, he toiled, and never grew weary; at one time inspecting his troops, at another strengthening his defences; now endeavouring to form some useful alliance, again writing cheerful letters and putting heart into the more timid of our friends.

We had another leader, too, who, though she did not lead us into battle was worth many a troop of horse to the Cause. I shall never forget the day when Joan of Albret, the great-hearted Queen of Navarre, came riding into our camp at Niort, bringing her son, Henry of Beam, and her nephew Henry, the son of the murdered Conde. True and steadfast in the hour of our defeat—more steadfast even than some of those who would ride fearlessly in the wildest charge—she came to prove her unswerving loyalty.

"I offer you my son," said this noble lady—may her name ever be held in reverence—"who burns with a bold ardour to avenge the death of the Prince we all regret. Behold also Conde's son, now become my own child. He succeeds to his father's name and glory. Heaven grant that they may both show themselves worthy of their ancestors!"

While she spoke, not another sound broke the silence in all that vast assembly; but when the echo of the last word had died away, such a shout arose that few have ever heard its like. The whole army cheered and cheered again with one voice; hundreds of swords flashed in the air; men went wild with enthusiasm as they cried, "Long live Joan of Albret! long live the Queen of Navarre!"

When at length silence was restored there rode to the front that gallant youth, Henry of Beam, whose winning manners had already charmed us at Rochelle. I have seen him since with all the world at his feet, and crowned with victory; but after his most glorious triumph he did not look more noble than on that memorable day at Niort. He was, as I have said, a splendid horseman, and he managed his fiery charger with exquisite grace and ease. His eyes, usually so sweet, were bright and burning; the hot blood reddened his clear brown skin.

"Soldiers!" he exclaimed—and I would you could have heard the music of his voice—"your cause is mine. I swear to defend our religion, and to persevere until death or victory has restored us the liberty for which we fight."

Once again the thundering cheers pealed forth, and had Monseigneur but met us that day, I warrant he would not have carried a hundred men with him from the field.

"Your Henry of Beam is a gallant youngster, Edmond," remarked Roger Braund that evening; "I would he had been with us at Jarnac!"

"That might have prevented his being here now!"

"True! On the other hand, his presence might have saved the day. However, he will have an opportunity of showing his mettle. Do we move soon?"

"We are waiting for a body of German foot-soldiers, and for the troops from Languedoc. Directly they arrive, I believe we break camp."

"The sooner the better," said he; "we shall rust out by staying here."

Most of the troops, indeed, had begun to weary of inaction, and when, on the arrival of our reinforcements, Coligny determined to offer battle once more, the whole camp received the news with satisfaction. A great grief had befallen our leader. His brother, the kindly genial Sieur Andelot, whom all men loved, had broken down under the terrible strain, and died at Saintes. It was a terrible blow, but the Admiral sternly repressed his sorrow, counting no sacrifice too great for the success of the Cause.

We marched out from the camp at Niort, twenty-five thousand strong, all in good spirits, and all placing the most implicit trust in our gallant leader. The dead Conde's troops were especially eager for the fray, and as they mounted and rode off, the words "Remember Jarnac!" passed from man to man. It was a watchword that boded ill for their opponents.

From day to day our scouts brought in word of the royal forces. They outnumbered us by several thousands, but that did not damp our ardour; in spite of Jarnac, we felt that we were marching to victory.

We had advanced within two days' distance of the city of Limoges, when our scouts galloped in with the information that they had encountered a strong force of hostile cavalry. Our preparations for battle were all made, so Coligny continued his march, the horsemen retiring before us, and making no effort to attack.

We passed an anxious night: the sentries were doubled, the outposts strengthened, and the men slept with their weapons in their hands, ready to spring up at the first note of warning. For the Admiral's personal attendants there was no sleep whatever. We passed our time in visiting the outposts, and in seeing that everything was secure. Only after day broke were we able to snatch an hour or two's rest.

"Faith," laughed Felix, as the march was resumed, "this is fine preparation for a battle! Edmond, rub the dust from your eyes; you look sleepy enough to fall from your saddle!"

"And all our labour was wasted!" I grumbled. "Those fellows just went comfortably to sleep, laughing at us for our pains."

"Never mind!" said my comrade merrily, "it may be our turn to laugh next. And, after all, I would rather laugh last."

All that day we marched through a woody, irregular district, the horsemen watching our movements, but retiring steadily at our approach, as if wishing to lure us into some cunning trap. But Coligny was not to be tempted; he kept his troops well in hand, and in the evening we camped by the side of a small stream with a marsh in our front.

"We have caught him," cried Felix, in a tone of delight.

"Or he has caught us!" said I dubiously. "Anjou has some skilful soldier at his elbow who chose that position."

On the other side of the marsh rose a rugged hill, and at the summit the royalist general had pitched his camp. Rude breastworks, from which the muzzles of several guns peeped out, had been erected, and altogether it looked as if Monseigneur had provided us with a hard nut to crack.

Coligny rode out across the marsh to examine the enemy's position more clearly, and I fancied there was a shade of anxiety on his usually serene face. It was a heavy responsibility he had to bear, for, should his troops be defeated, the Huguenot Cause was lost. There was no other army to replace the one under his command.

"The longer you look at it the less you'll like it," said Roger Braund cheerfully—for our English comrade often came over for a chat when we had pitched camp—"Monseigneur has fenced himself in marvellously well."

"The more credit in digging him out!" laughed Felix. "Don't make Edmond more doleful; he is half afraid now of meeting with a second Jarnac. De Pilles"—the commander of our artillery—"will soon batter down those walls, and a sharp rush will carry the hill."

"'Tis a simple matter winning a battle—in our minds," laughed Roger, "but not always so easy in practice. Monseigneur's troops fought well enough at Jarnac."

"Ah," said Felix merrily, "they will fight well here, but we shall fight better!"

"Is an assault decided on?"

"No one knows," I replied; "there is to be a meeting of the Council presently. But I take it that we must attack. Monseigneur has the advantage of us. He can obtain provisions; we can't."

"And we aren't likely to retreat!" exclaimed Felix.

"In that case we must go forward; but we shall hear the decision in an hour or two."

The Council sat for a considerable time, while we of the Admiral's household discussed the situation among ourselves. There were various opinions given, the older men declaring Monseigneur was too strongly posted to be dislodged, the younger and more hot-headed making light of the danger.

At length the Council broke up, and, though nothing was actually disclosed, we soon became aware that Coligny had resolved on risking a battle.

"Bravo!" said Felix, as we went to our tent, "'twill be a pity if Roche Abeille does not make up for Jarnac!"

The bugle-call roused us at daybreak, and after a hasty breakfast we prepared for the fray. It was a glorious summer morning, with only a few fleecy clouds dotting the blue sky. The country was bathed in sunlight, and the green, leafy foliage of the numerous trees on our left made a delightful picture. The waters of the little stream in our rear danced and sparkled, and the chorus of the birds made wondrous music. Before long every feathered creature was flying hastily away in amazement and affright.

The army was drawn up in battle array, and the noble Coligny, serene and confident, rode along the lines.

"Soldiers!" he exclaimed, "the time has come. The enemy are before us. We must beat them or die. Soldiers, if we lose this battle, the sacred Cause to which we have pledged our lives is overthrown. Our religion will be destroyed, our wives and little ones slain, we ourselves shall go to the prison, the block, or the stake. Soldiers, the safety of the Cause is entrusted to your arms! I know you are worthy of the honour."

A great cheer greeted these stirring words, a cheer that, echoing far and wide, sounded like a haughty challenge of defiance to the foe.

I had little to do but to watch the opening of the battle, and my heart beat fast as De Pilles, a rough and fearless fighter, went forward with his artilery. Almost instantly the excitement became tense.

"He is into the marsh!" cried Felix. "His guns are stuck fast! He cannot get them out! Ah, see, Monseigneur is launching his horsemen at them!"

Down the hill they came in beautiful order, a troop of Italian cavalry, their helmets gleaming, their swords flashing in the sunlight.

"De Pilles is lost!" muttered a man behind me.

"No, no!" cried Felix; "he will beat them off. See, he is forming up his men. Ah, bravo! bravo! Look, there isn't a coward among them!"

With a rush, the Italians swept down on the guns. They were brave men and seasoned fighters, but they came to grief that day. Though their animals floundered in the soft soil they struggled on valiantly; they reached the guns, they wheeled and circled, they struck fierce blows with their glittering blades, but, wherever they rode, there they found a grim and sturdy opponent.

Back they went for a breathing-space, and then, with a magnificent charge, once more flung themselves on the handful of gunners. My heart stood still when, for a moment, our gallant few disappeared as if overwhelmed by the waves of a human sea.

A triumphant shout from Felix roused me. The waves had rolled back, broken and shattered, and we raised cheer after cheer as the baffled horsemen slowly climbed the hill. De Pilles had saved his guns, and in Monseigneur's Italian troop there were more than a score of empty saddles. It was a good beginning for us.

The battle now became general. The guns, dragged from the marsh on to firm ground, opened fire against the breastworks, the infantry marched steadily forward, two troops of horse worked round to the right, seeking a favourable place for attack.

But our progress was slow. Monseigneur's troops, fighting with rare vigour and courage, forced us back again and again; their position seemed impregnable, and our men fell fast. Unless we could break through somewhere the battle was lost.

By extreme good fortune, I was close behind the Admiral when he turned his head, seeking a messenger.

"Le Blanc" he cried, courteous as ever, even in the midst of the terrible strife, "ride to De Courcy Lamont, and tell him to charge home. Tell him that unless he can make a gap for us, the day is lost. And say that the Admiral trusts him."

Bowing low, I spurred my horse sharply, and darted off. Around me rose the din of battle—the thunder of the guns, the savage cries of angry men closely locked in deadly combat. Already Monseigneur's troops were shouting "Victory!" and I had visions of an even more fearful disaster than at Jarnac.

De Courcy Lamont listened to my message with a proud smile on his face. His troopers were faint and weary; many were more or less seriously wounded; they had lost several of their comrades; but Coligny's words acted like magic.

"The Admiral trusts to us!" said their leader. "Shall we disappoint him?"

"No! no!" they cried; "we will die for the Admiral! Let us charge!"

"I thank you, gentlemen," said De Courcy simply.

It was a desperate enterprise, and would never have been attempted but for the love these gallant men bore to our great chief. For his sake they were going to throw themselves upon death.

"Charge!" Half mad with excitement, I took my place with them, behind De Courcy, who rode several lengths in advance. From a trot to a canter, from a canter to a gallop, and then with one mighty rush we swept down on the foe. A body of horse dashed across our path; we brushed them aside like a handful of chaff, and never slackened pace.

"The Admiral! The Admiral! For the Cause! Remember Jarnac!" we shouted hoarsely, as our straining animals flew over the intervening space.

Faster and faster grew the mad gallop, until, like a living whirlwind, we flung ourselves on a line of bristling pikes.

"For the Admiral!" cried our leader joyously.

"Anjou! Anjou!" came back the defiant answer, and then we were in the midst of them. We had made a gap, but at terrible expense.

Hotter and hotter waxed the strife; swords flashed, pikes ran red, shouts of triumph mingled with groans of despair; men went down and were trampled underfoot in the horrible press; we were tossed and buffeted from side to side, but we fought on with savage desperation, and the cry, "For the Admiral!" still rose in triumph. Truly it could not be said that we grudged our lives that day!

And presently an answering cry of "For the Admiral!" sounded on our ears. Our charge had not been made in vain! Back went the enemy, slowly and stubbornly at first, fighting every inch of the ground, but still retreating.

"They give way!" cried De Courcy, who was bare-headed and wounded, "they give way! Charge, my brave lads!"

The words decided the fortunes of the day. With a rush and a roar we swept forward, and Anjou's stubborn troops scattered in flight. Forward we went in hot pursuit, but suddenly everything became dark to me; the stricken field with its mob of flying men vanished from sight, and I sank forward helplessly across my horse's neck.



CHAPTER X

I Rejoin the Advance

"Do you know me, monsieur? It is I—Jacques."

"Jacques?" I repeated dreamily. "Where are we? What are we doing here? My head aches; I feel stiff all over. Where is the letter? Ah, I remember now. We won the battle, Jacques?"

"Yes, monsieur. It was a great victory. Monseigneur's troops were completely routed."

I closed my eyes and lay thinking. By degrees it all came back to me; the Admiral's message, De Courcy's wild charge, the terrible conflict, the flight of the royalists, and then—! I had a strange half-consciousness of having been raised from the ground and carried some distance, but of what had really happened I had no definite knowledge.

But how came Jacques into the picture? Surely he was not at Roche Abeille! I opened my eyes and saw him bending over me and looking eagerly into my face.

"Jacques," I said, "what are you doing here?"

"Nursing you, monsieur," he answered cheerfully. "I got to Rochelle just after you had started, and followed the army; but the battle was over when I reached Roche Abeille."

"How did you find me?"

"I went to the Admiral's gentlemen. They said you were killed, and that your friend Monsieur Bellievre was distracted, and there was another gentleman, an Englishman, who looked very unhappy. But we fetched a surgeon, who patched you up, and we carried you here."

"Where, Jacques?"

"The city of Limoges, monsieur. You are lodged at a comfortable inn, and now you have talked enough."

"One more question, my good Jacques; how long have I been here?"

"Three days, monsieur. Now I will get you some nourishing food, and afterwards you must sleep."

The next morning, finding I was much stronger, Jacques was willing to answer further questions. Felix had come through the fray unscathed, and Roger Braund was only slightly wounded. Anjou, he said, had been thoroughly defeated, and there was already talk of the end of the war.

"And where are the troops now?" I asked.

"They marched in the direction of Poictiers. It is rumoured that the Admiral intends to besiege the town."

"It may be so," I observed doubtfully, "but it is hardly likely. That is the mistake Monseigneur made after Jarnac."

"Well," replied Jacques with a smile, "it cannot interest monsieur very much for the next three or four weeks."

He had quite recovered from his own wounds, and was full of praise of the Count St. Cyr, who had treated him with the greatest kindness.

"The count is a noble gentleman," he remarked, "and full of zeal for the Cause. He is bringing his retainers to aid the Admiral."

"He is an old man, too," I said musingly.

"But with all the fire of a boy, monsieur."

"Have you heard that a price has been set on my father's head?" I asked presently.

"Yes," and the worthy fellow's face clouded over with passion, "that is Etienne Cordel's handiwork."

"But we have done the man no harm!"

"He hates your father, monsieur; and, besides, Le Blanc is a fine property. Monseigneur and the Italian woman are deeply in his debt, and that would be a simple mode of payment. 'Tis easy to give away what does not belong to one. Many Huguenot estates have changed hands in that way."

I thought Jacques was exaggerating the case, but not caring to argue the matter I said no more, and turning round dropped off into a refreshing sleep.

For a fortnight longer I lay in bed, and then the surgeon, who came every day, allowed me to get up. My head was still dizzy, and my legs tottered under me, but, leaning on Jacques' arm, I walked slowly up and down the room. The next morning, still attended by my faithful servant, I went downstairs and out into the street, and from that day I fast began to recover my strength.

There was not much news of the war, beyond the fact that the Huguenots were besieging Poictiers, a piece of information that I was sorry to hear, since it seemed to me they would fritter away their strength for nothing. The Admiral, however, doubtless possessed good reasons for his actions, and in any case it was not for me to question his wisdom.

I was able now to walk without assistance, and even to sit in the saddle, though not very firmly, and I felt eager to rejoin my comrades. But to this neither Jacques nor the surgeon would consent, so I continued to while away the time in the quaint old town as patiently as possible. But, as the weeks passed and my strength returned more fully, life in Limoges became more and more insupportable, and I finally resolved to travel by easy stages to Poictiers.

The news we gathered on the journey was by no means reassuring. Coligny had failed to capture the town; he had lost several thousand good troops, and had raised the siege. Equally discomforting was the information that Anjou was in the field again with a strong and well-equipped army.

"We seem to have gained little by our victory," I said disconsolately.

"We shall do better after our next one," said Jacques cheerily. "We learn by our mistakes, monsieur."

The rival armies had apparently vanished. From time to time we obtained news of Coligny, but it was very vague, and left us little the wiser. One day he was said to be at Moncontour, another at Loudun; on a third we were told he was retreating pell-mell to La Rochelle, with Anjou hot on his heels.

Within a few hours' ride of Loudun we put up for the night at a small inn. Jacques attended to the animals—one of us generally saw them properly fed—while I gave instructions to the landlord concerning our supper. He was an old man, almost as old as Pierre, and he had such a peculiar trick of jerking his head in answer to my remarks that I almost feared it would come right off.

"I am sorry, monsieur, I will do my best; but the larder is empty. I will kill a fowl; there is one left; but monsieur will be under the disagreeable necessity of waiting."

"We are sharp set," I said. "Is there no cold meat in the house?"

"Monsieur, the troopers have devoured everything."

"Whose troopers?" I asked sharply.

"Whose but Monseigneur's!" replied the old man; "but they did not remain long; they were busy hunting down the heretics."

After asking a few more questions, I sent him away to catch and cook our supper, and then discussed his information with Jacques. From the old man's story we gathered that the Duke of Montpensier was marching south with a division of the royal army in pursuit of our comrades.

"Between Montpensier and Anjou we are in an awkward situation," I said. "We have overshot the mark."

"That is true, monsieur; we must turn back, if we wish to join the Admiral; but our animals are tired."

"We will give them a few hours' rest, and start early in the morning."

"If the supper is cooked by then!" answered Jacques slily.

There seemed to be some little doubt about that, but finally our host, who had been scouring the village, returned in triumph with provisions for an ample meal.

Awake soon after dawn, we fed the animals, broke our own fast, and, having settled the score, started off on the highroad to Poictiers.

It was, by the position of the sun, about nine o'clock in the morning when we perceived a horseman approaching us. He appeared in a desperate hurry, and was spurring his horse vigorously.

"Jacques!" I exclaimed, "this is a soldier of some sort. Will he be coming from Montpensier, think you?"

"Likely enough, monsieur."

"If so, he may carry important news, and his information may be of service to the Admiral. It should be easy for us to obtain it."

"True, monsieur; he will never dream of danger."

"But we must not hurt him, Jacques; mind that."

"Nothing more than a tap on the head," said Jacques, "if he should prove obstinate."

The rider came along at a swinging pace. He was a young fellow, richly dressed, and of a handsome appearance.

"Good news, monsieur!" I cried, riding toward him. "Do you carry good news?"

It was evident that he had not the slightest idea of meeting with an enemy in the rear of Montpensier's troops. He drew rein, saying, "Are you from Monseigneur? I am bearing him welcome information. Coligny is retreating, we fell on his rear just now and drove it in. Ah, ah, 'tis a rich joke! He thinks Monseigneur himself is here with the whole army."

"While 'tis only Montpensier with a division!" I said, laughing. "Where shall we find the Duke?"

"An hour's ride, not more; but I must be going. Monseigneur waits to make his plans."

The next instant Jacques had clutched his bridle rein, while the young fellow was gazing in blank astonishment along the barrel of my pistol.

"'Tis a disagreeable necessity, monsieur," I remarked, speaking very harshly, "but you are our prisoner. Tie the horses' reins together, Jacques, and remove this gentleman's weapons. Do not stir, monsieur, it would be foolish. A cry or a movement will cost your life. We must have that despatch which you are carrying to Monseigneur."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We belong to the Huguenot army, and have met you by a stroke of good fortune. And now the document, monsieur! Will you surrender it? Or will you compel us to search you? That is an undignified proceeding, and will not help you at all."

"No," he agreed gloomily; "I am in your power. But this is a sorry trick; I would rather you had forced the paper from me at the sword's point. It would have been more creditable to your honour."

"That may be so, but meanwhile we await the paper."

Finding himself helpless, he handed me the document with the best grace he could muster, and I immediately placed it inside my doublet.

"Now," I exclaimed cheerfully, "we are in a hurry to reach our comrades, but we have no wish to ride into the midst of the Duke's troops. In order to avoid that calamity, we will make you our guide; but pray be careful, because in the event of a mistake you will be the first victim. My servant is an old soldier, while I have had some practice with the pistol. But this is a disagreeable subject; let us dismiss it."

"With all my heart," said he, laughing. "And now what would you have me do?"

"Put us on the track of our comrades, and prevent us from falling into the Duke's hands."

"That is," said he, "to return good for evil. Well, 'tis something of a novelty for me."

"You should practise it more frequently," I laughed, and with that we rode on, our prisoner being in the middle.

I hardly thought he would venture his life by misleading us of set purpose, yet for all that I rode cautiously, keeping my eyes open for any sign of the enemy. But either by good luck or our prisoner's skilful guidance—and it matters little which—we entirely avoided the Royalist army, and came up with our own troops just as they had halted for a short rest.

Being instantly challenged, I gave my name to the officer, and asked where the Admiral was to be found.

"I will take you to him," said he, and he led us through the camp, walking by the horse's side.

Coligny was eating his frugal meal, but he glanced up at our approach, and the officer said, "Edmond Le Blanc, general, who claims to belong to your household."

"Le Blanc!" echoed the Admiral, knitting his brows—he had doubtless forgotten me—"ah, of course; you have been absent from duty a long time."

"I had the misfortune to be left behind at Roche Abeille, my lord."

"Ah, I remember. You are Bellievre's comrade, and you carried my message to De Courcy. So you have recovered?"

"Yes, my lord; but I have something important to say. I have had the good luck to capture a messenger carrying a despatch from the Duke of Montpensier to Monseigneur."

"To Monseigneur!" and, turning to my prisoner, he said, "Is he not with the troops who attacked us?"

"I do not know the customs of your gentlemen, my lord," he replied, with a low bow, "but it is not our practice to betray secrets to an enemy."

"A proper answer," said the Admiral, with more slowness of speech even than usual, "and a just reproof. But this paper should tell what I wish to learn," and he broke the seal.

"Montpensier's division alone," he muttered; "this is valuable information. Le Blanc, can we be sure of this?"

"It is certain, my lord, that Monseigneur's troops are not present, though I believe they are hurrying to join with the Duke's."

"There will be just time," he said, "just time," and, leaving his meal, he instantly summoned his principal officers.

As soon as my interview with him was over a dozen of my old comrades crowded around, congratulating me on my recovery, and asking all sorts of questions. Several familiar faces were missing, and I learned that more than one of my intimate friends had been left behind in the trenches at Poictiers. Felix, happily, was unhurt, and he informed me that Roger Braund was still with the little troop of Englishmen.

"But what of your prisoner?" he asked. "Has he given his parole?"

"No, I fancy he is rather counting on the chance of escape."

"Then he must be placed under guard. I will attend to it, and return in a few minutes. Well, Jacques, has your master been very troublesome?"

"Not since we left Limoges, monsieur."

We were preparing to look for Roger when the bugles sounded, the men sprang to arms, and orders were issued for the retreat to be resumed.

"I don't like this," grumbled Felix, "it breaks the men's spirits. Our rearguard came running in to-day like a parcel of sheep. I wish the Admiral would fight; it will be too late after a while. It is not pleasant to be chased as if we were rabbits."

The royalists were in full view now, and the faster we marched the more closely they pressed the pursuit. It was very galling, and many a murmur was heard even against our noble leader, but none from those who rode with him in the rear. Twice we turned and faced the enemy, but, on each occasion, after a few minutes' conflict the order was issued for further retreat.

At length we reached the summit of a gentle slope, behind which flowed the River Dive. Here it seemed as if the Admiral intended to make a stand, but the royalists gave him little leisure for forming plans. They advanced boldly, taunting us for runaways, and bidding us muster sufficient courage to cross swords with them.

A volley from our German foot-soldiers checked their rush, and, while they were endeavouring to re-form, a body of horse crashed, as if shot from a gun, into their left flank. The noble St. Cyr, erect and soldierly, in spite of his four score and five years, led the charge, and a rousing cheer broke from us at sight of the gallant veteran.

But there was little time for cheering. "Charge, my children!" cried the Admiral, "charge, and strike home! For the Faith!"

"For the Faith!" we echoed lustily, spurring our horses, and dashing into the fray.

Hammered by St. Cyr on the left, by the Admiral in front, by the young princes on the right, the royalist horse reeled and staggered. Again and again they tried to rally; but we rode them down, broke the groups as soon as they re-formed, drove them pell-mell on to their infantry, and then with one grand rush tumbled the whole division into ruin.

"Forward! Forward!" cried the hot-bloods. "Remember Jarnac!" "Remember Conde!" "Cut them down!"

But a wild pursuit formed no part of the Admiral's plans; he wished to cross the river unmolested, so the bugles were sounded, and we came dropping back, laughing and cheering, and in high spirits at our brilliant little victory. As with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes we ranged ourselves around our brave leader some one cried out, "See, what is going on over yonder!"

In a corner of the field, some distance off, a number of royalists had rallied round a flag. Something strange was happening; the flag disappeared, came into view again, and once more sank from sight. Then in one spot the crowd gave way as if burst asunder, and out from the gap leaped a horseman. He was carrying the flag, and he rode straight toward us. A dozen men started in pursuit, but he outdistanced them easily, turning from time to time and waving the flag as if in derision.

We gazed in astonishment at the spectacle, wondering what it meant, until Felix cried out, "'Tis the Englishman! 'Tis Roger Braund. He has captured the flag!"

A great roar of cheering went up as he approached us, his helmet gone, his face bleeding, his doublet slashed, but his eyes smiling cheerfully. With an easy grace he jumped from his horse, and advancing on foot presented the trophy to the Admiral.

"A memento of the battle-field, my lord," he said, with a courteous bow.

Coligny took the flag, and with a rare smile handed it back, saying, "Monsieur, it could not remain in worthier hands! Let it be carried in the ranks of your gallant countrymen, to whom we owe so much."

Roger bowed again. "The memory of your praise my lord," said he, "will nerve us to deserve it."

As we rode back toward the river, every one tried to get near him, to shake his hand, to praise him for his deed of daring. And in truth it was a splendid action! Single-handed, he had charged into the press; single-handed he had wrested the trophy by from its custodian; and, still alone, had fought his way out. It was a brilliant feat, which we of the Religion talked of round many a camp fire. And that it was done by one who was not our countryman did not lessen our admiration.



CHAPTER XI

A Desperate Conflict

WE had crossed the Dive safely, the cavalry last of all, and the soldiers, wearied by their long marches, had thrown themselves down to snatch a brief rest. The enemy were assembling on the opposite bank of the river, and it was plain that they had been heavily reinforced.

"Monseigneur must have arrived with his troops," said Felix. "I hope the Admiral will offer him battle. The victory over Montpensier has put our fellows in fine fettle; they would fight now with a good heart."

"The enemy have us at a disadvantage," said Roger. "You forget our guns are at Montcontour."

A surgeon had dressed his wounds; he had borrowed a helmet from a comrade, and had changed his doublet. His left arm troubled him somewhat, but otherwise he suffered no ill effects from his famous fight for the flag.

"They outnumber us, too," said I, "especially in their cavalry, and Anjou's gentlemen are no mean sworders."

"But we must fight at some time or other; we cannot wander about the country for ever!" laughed Felix. "It seems to me we have been playing at hide-and-seek with Anjou ever since leaving Poictiers. And let me whisper another thing—the Germans are beginning to grumble."

"That," said Roger, "is a serious matter. What is their grievance?"

"Money! Their pay has fallen into arrears, and I don't see how it is to be made up. The Admiral has almost ruined himself for the Cause already. 'Tis a pity we cannot capture Anjou's money chests; they would be worth having. Corbleu! the bugle is sounding! That means there is to be no battle."

"Monseigneur may have something to say to that," remarked Roger, as he walked off toward his own comrades.

In a short time the troops had fallen in, and the infantry at a swinging pace marched off the ground, the cavalry as before forming the rearguard. The evening was neither clear nor dull, there being just sufficient light to enable us to see our way. St. Cyr's troop, and the body of Englishmen, now, alas! sadly reduced in numbers, rode last of all, and occasionally one of the troopers would gallop up to our leader with information of the enemy's movements.

We appeared to have gained a good start, as it was not until noon of the next day that our rearguard was driven in, and we got a clear view of the hostile troops. They followed us closely, hanging like leeches on our rear, but refraining from making any determined attack. Still, in order to protect our own main body, we were forced several times to turn at bay. In these combats the fiercest fighting always centred round the troop of Englishmen carrying the captured flag.

"Roger is a gallant fellow," I remarked after one of these occasions, "but too venturesome. It would be more prudent to hide the trophy."

"Faith!" cried Felix, "you have strange ideas! I would hold it as high as I could, till my arm was numbed. I hear they have hung our banners in Notre Dame, so that the Parisians may see what fine fellows they are. If I could capture a flag, Edmond, they should cut me in little pieces before I let it go. Were I your English friend I would not change places with Coligny himself."

"Well," I said laughing, "you may have a chance to obtain your wish soon, for, whether it pleases our leaders or not, they will be compelled to fight. This retreat cannot continue much longer. And if the Germans desert us, there is likely to be a second Jarnac."

"Rubbish!" exclaimed he lightly; "we should gain the greater honour by the victory!"

Our German allies had become very sullen during the last day or two, and the evening we reached Montcontour they broke out into open threats. They declared angrily that unless their arrears of pay were immediately made up they would not fight.

The evening was almost as miserable as that after the battle of Jarnac. Monseigneur, with a strong, well-equipped army, was close on our heels, ready to swoop down upon us at any moment. Our own men were weary and disheartened, and now we had to contend with the anger of our allies.

"Let the poltroons go!" exclaimed Felix scornfully. "We will fight and win without them," and all the young hot-heads among our comrades applauded him. But the veterans were wiser, and openly showed their pleasure when it was announced that our leader had, by another splendid sacrifice, appeased his mutinous followers. But, even with the Germans ready to do their duty, our prospects seemed to me far from rosy, and I found that Roger Braund held the same view.

"Whether we fight or retreat," said he, "in my opinion the situation is equally desperate."

"The Council has decided to give battle," exclaimed Felix, who had just come from the Admiral's tent.

"Then a good many of us are spending our last evening on earth," observed Roger calmly.

"We must take our chance," said Felix; "every battle levies its toll; but I can see no more danger here than at Roche Abeille. Do you think our fellows have lost heart?"

"Not exactly; but they are dispirited, while their opponents are full of confidence."

"We beat them at Roche Abeille!"

"They have recovered from that defeat."

"We flung them off at Dive!"

"A bagatelle! Remember, only Montpensier's division was engaged. Things are different now. Monseigneur has a thoroughly good army. His cavalry especially are as brave as ours, and far more numerous. Still, I may be looking through a smoked glass. This time to-morrow you may be rallying me on my gloomy prophecy. I hope so, with all my heart!"

"I am sure of it," laughed Felix merrily. "You will not have the courage to look me in the face!"

During this conversation there was a matter on my mind of which I was resolved to speak before my English comrade returned to his own quarters.

"Is it necessary," I asked, "to carry that flag into the battle to-morrow? According to your account, the conflict will be a desperate one; is it well to expose your comrades to even greater danger? The sight of it will rouse your opponents to fury, and your troop will be singled out for vengeance."

"As Felix would say, we must take our chance," he answered smilingly. "The Admiral committed the flag to our charge, and, my comrades will guard it with their lives."

"It is needless risk."

"I think not, Edmond; it will put heart into us when the hour of trial comes. But the night grows late; I must wish you farewell, and trust that we may meet again when the battle is over."

We bade him good-night, and, having no duties to perform, lay down to rest. I slept very lightly, my brain being filled with all sorts of confused fancies, and it was a relief to hear the bugles sound the rouse.

Felix sprang up cheerfully, and in a short time we had placed ourselves in attendance on our chief, who greeted us with his usual grave but kindly smile.

"Let us commend our souls to God, gentlemen," he said reverently, "and beseech Him to strengthen our hearts in the approaching encounter."

It may have been pure fancy on my part, but as we rode along the lines I seemed to miss that air of cheerful confidence which had been so evident at Roche Abeille. The men greeted their general with cheers, and I had no doubt they would do their duty; but they lacked that eager vivacity which goes so far toward winning victory.

Across the plain the enemy were drawn up in two lines with their artillery posted on a hill, and about eight o'clock the first cannon ball came booming toward us. Instantly our guns replied, and a fierce artillery duel which lasted throughout the battle began.

"Their guns are heavier than ours, and carry a farther distance," I observed to Felix.

"It matters little," replied he; "the battle will be decided by the sword. I wonder when we are going to advance?"

"Not at all, I expect. The Admiral has chosen his ground"—though there was little choice for that matter—"and intends to stand on the defensive."

"That may suit the Germans well enough, but our own men do not like waiting to be charged. Monseigneur means to drive in our right wing! See, he is bringing his cavalry forward. How splendidly they ride! It makes one proud to know they are Frenchmen!"

"And sorry, too!"

I think Monseigneur was at their head, but the distance from our centre, where the Admiral had stationed himself, was great, and I may have been mistaken; but the leader, whoever he was, advanced very gallantly, several lengths in advance of his front line, waving his sword and cheering his followers.

The sun shone down on their steel caps, their breastplates and thigh-pieces, and made their swords glitter like silver. They formed a pretty picture, with their gay flags and fluttering pennons, and they rode with all the confidence of victors.

From a trot they broke into a gallop, and we held our breath as, gathering momentum, they swept proudly down on our right wing. A volley rang out, and here and there a trooper dropped, but the rest galloped on straight for their foe.

We craned our necks to watch the result. Not a man spoke; we hardly dared to breathe, so keen was our anxiety. Would our fellows stand firm before that human avalanche? If they gave way ever so little, our right wing must be tumbled into ruin.

Nearer and nearer, in beautiful order, horse's head to horse's head, they tore along, until, with a tremendous crash, they flung themselves upon the solid wall of infantry.

"Bravo!" cried Felix excitedly, "they are broken; they are turning back! Ah, St. Cyr is upon them! There go the Englishmen! For the Faith! For the Faith!"

We stood in our stirrups, waving our swords and cheering like madmen. Straight as a die the noble veteran with his gallant troop and the scanty band of Englishmen leaped into the midst of the baffled horsemen, and drove them back in wild disorder.

But there were brave and valiant hearts among those royalist gentlemen, and we had hardly finished our exulting cheers when they returned to the attack. They flung away their lives recklessly, but they forced a passage, and our infantry were slowly yielding to numbers when Coligny, with a "Follow me, gentlemen!" galloped to the rescue.

Cheer answered cheer as we dashed into the fray, and the shouts of "Anjou!" were drowned by the cries of "For the Faith!" "For the Admiral!"

With splendid bravery the royalists stood their ground; but Coligny's presence so inspired his followers that at last, with one irresistible rush, they swept forward, carrying everything before them.

"Stand firm, my brave lads!" said our chief, as the troops, flushed with their success, formed up anew, "stand firm, and the day is won!"

He had turned to speak to the Count of St. Cyr, when a mounted messenger dashed up, panting and breathless.

"My lord," he gasped, after a moment's pause, "we are heavily beset on the left, and are being forced back. I fear that the whole wing is in danger."

"Courage, my friend," replied Coligny, "courage. We will be with you directly. Come, gentlemen, there is still work for us to do."

The battle was now at its height, but as we dashed along from right to left, our centre paused to cheer their gallant general. They were hardly pressed, but were holding their own sturdily, and our spirits rose at sight of their intrepid defence.

On the left wing, however, the case was different. Here Anjou, or Tavannes—for I suppose it was the marshal who really directed the battle—was throwing successive bodies of troops upon the devoted Huguenots, who were sorely put to it to defend their position. But at our approach a great cry of relief went up from the panting soldiers. There was one among us worth a whole division!

Even those who had begun to retreat joined in the shout, and once more dashed into the fray. Wave after wave of royalists rolled down upon us, but time and again we flung them back, and at last, with one superb effort, hurled their front rank into ruin.

"The day goes well," cried Felix exultingly, as we galloped back to our lines. "Anjou will remember Montcontour!"

In every part of the field the fight now raged fiercely, and, wherever the stress was greatest, there, as if by magic, appeared Coligny. His escort steadily decreased in numbers; one died here, while supporting a body of infantry, another dropped during some wild charge; but our general himself, though fighting like a common trooper, appeared invulnerable.

Wherever he was, there victory followed our arms; but the odds against us were too heavy. Our men stood in their places and fought to the death; but their limbs grew tired, their arms ached with the strain; they needed rest. All our troops, however, were in the fighting-line, and the royalist attacks never ceased.

Anjou fed his lines constantly; fresh troops took the places of the fallen; we might slay and slay, but the number of our enemies never seemed to lessen. And in the midst of the terrible uproar a cry arose that our centre was wavering. For an hour or more a battle of giants had been taking place there. In front of our infantry the dead lay piled in a heap, but for every royalist who died Anjou sent another.

The strain was too great to be borne. Our men were beginning to give way, and once more we galloped with the Admiral at headlong speed toward the point of danger. We were too late; we should perhaps have been too late in any case. The royalist foot-soldiers opened out, and from behind them poured impetuously a body of horsemen.

They struck us full, rode us down, leaped at the infantry, forced a passage here and there, cut and slashed without mercy, yelling like tigers, "Death to the Huguenots!"

Coligny was wounded, his face bled; I thought he would have fallen from his saddle; but, recovering himself, he called on us to follow him and dashed at the victorious horsemen. Our numbers were few and no help could reach us. We called on our men to stand firm, to fight for the Admiral, to remember their wives and children—it was all in vain.

We were borne along in one struggling, confused mass, horse and foot, royalists and Huguenots all mingled together.

"Anjou! Anjou!" shouted the victors in wild exultation, while the cries of "For the Admiral! For the Faith!" became weaker and weaker. In that part of the field the battle was lost.

We closed around our chief, perhaps a score of us, some even of that number already desperately wounded. No one spoke, but we set our teeth hard, resolving grimly that there should be twenty corpses before Anjou's victorious troopers reached him.

"We must stop them," said Coligny, speaking in evident pain, "turn them back, beg them to fight, or the Cause is lost."

Again and again we endeavoured to make a stand; calling on the fugitives to halt, to remember they were Frenchmen, to look their foes in the face—it was useless, every little group that formed for a moment being swept away by the raging, human torrent.

"Some one must find Count Louis of Nassau," said our general, "and say I trust to him to cover the retreat. We may yet rally the runaways."

We looked at each other in doubt. It was not the fear of death that kept us tongue-tied, though death lay in our rear, but each man wished to spend his life for our beloved leader.

"Let three or four of you go," he said; "one may reach him," and as he spoke his glance seemed to light on my face.

"I will take the Count your message, my lord!" I cried, and without waiting for a reply turned my horse's head, and dashed into the whirlpool.

The battle-field was a hideous scene. Wherever the eye could reach, men were fighting and dying. There was no order even among the conquerors. I came across a little knot of Huguenot gentlemen who had turned furiously at bay.

"For the Admiral!" I cried, plunging in wild excitement into the midst of the hostile sworders. "For the Admiral!" Perhaps my comrades thought me mad, and in sober truth they would not have been far wrong; but they were generous souls, and with a yell of defiance they cut their way through after me.

"Count Louis," I said breathlessly to the first man, as we emerged on the other side, "where is he?"

"I do not know; he was on our right wing when the crash came."

"I must find him; I have a message from the chief"

"Let us try the right wing," he said, "they are making a stand there."

A dozen gentlemen had followed me, one of them carrying a flag, and as we galloped forward others joined us until we were fifty or sixty strong. It was like riding into the very jaws of death, but they asked no questions; the sight of the flag was sufficient. A body of infantry barred our path; we turned neither to right nor left, but crashed straight through them. A few foot-soldiers ran with us, holding by the stirrups, going cheerfully to death, rather than seek safety in shameful flight.

Suddenly a burst of cheering in a foreign tongue reached us. "Hurrah! Hurrah! For the Admiral!" and a troop of horse came tearing down. It was the band of gallant Englishmen, and I recognized Roger Braund still bearing the captured trophy. Fearing they might mistake us for royalists I rode forward hastily, crying in English, "Friends! Friends! We are Huguenots!"



CHAPTER XII

The Return to Rochelle

The conference was brief. "Have you seen Count Louis?" I asked their leader.

"No, monsieur, but we will help you to find him. Forward, brave boys; another blow for the Cause!"

They replied with a cheer—oh, how those Englishmen cheered!—and we raced on together, French and English, side by side, and death all around us. I glanced at Roger; he had been wounded again, but there was no time to speak.

The retreat in this part of the field had not become general; numbers of soldiers in tolerably good order were still battling stubbornly, and presently we reached the remnant of several troops of cavalry.

In front of them was the venerable Count of St. Cyr, his snow-white beard sweeping to his waist.

"My lord," I said, riding up, "can you tell me where to find Count Louis of Nassau?"

"Farther on the right, monsieur," he replied courteously; "but you will find it difficult to reach him. Ah, here they come!" and, glancing ahead, I perceived a cloud of horsemen preparing to swoop down upon us.

"Pray, my lord," pleaded his chaplain, who was close by, "say something to encourage your troops. They are faint and weary with fighting, and the odds against them are terrible."

The stout-hearted warrior turned to his followers. "Brave men need no words!" he cried; "do as you see me do!" and they greeted his speech with frantic cheers.

"You will be lucky to meet Count Louis after this!" cried Roger, as I returned to my men.

The royalists swept forward, threatening to engulf us as the wild sea swallows a tiny boat, and I must admit that my heart sank at sight of them. But I was in the company of brave men, and following the flag of as brave a leader as could be found in all France.

He glanced round at us; there was a proud smile on his resolute face; his eyes glowed with fiery ardour.

"Charge, my children!" he cried, "and strike a last blow for St. Cyr!"

He pressed his horse's sides with the spurs, and waving his sword dashed forward, his battle-cry, "St. Cyr!" ringing out high and clear. It was a sight to make one weep, and yet feel proud that one's country could produce such a hero.

Forward we went, and the air was filled with cries of "St Cyr! For the Admiral! Hurrah! Hurrah!" as we plunged into the midst of the press.

"Forward, my children!" cried St Cyr, as he carved a passage for himself through the throng; "forward!"

He was a splendid rider and a skilful swordsman, but his enemies closed round him thickly. Savage blows rained upon him from every side, and at last, with a "Fight on, my children!" the gallant veteran sank bleeding to the ground. Montcontour cost France numerous brave men but none braver than the chivalrous St. Cyr.

His fall, instead of dispiriting his followers, roused them to fury! No one asked or gave quarter; it was a fight to the death, and when finally we succeeded in breaking through the royalist horse, half of our number lay lifeless on the plain. Some there were—St. Cyr's personal attendants notably—so fired with grief and anger at the death of their beloved chief that they were for turning back and renewing the combat.

This, however, was stark madness, so we galloped on, with the royalists like sleuth-hounds on our track.

Presently they slackened their pace, and then abandoned the pursuit, for we were approaching our cavalry, commanded by Count Louis of Nassau.

"You are welcome, brave hearts!" he exclaimed, "every man is needed," and his troops cheered us vigorously.

"My lord," I said, riding up and saluting, "I have come from the Admiral; he begs that you will cover the retreat, for unless you can do so all is lost."

"Where is the Admiral, monsieur?"

"My lord, when the centre broke, he was carried away by the rush. He has been wounded in the head, and I fear seriously."

"Did you leave him in safety?"

"He was surrounded by his bodyguard; at least, by all those who were left alive."

"Will the centre rally, think you?"

"There is no centre; it is a scattered mob. I fear there is no army except the troops you have here. The left, I am sure, has given way."

He was about to reply when a cavalier galloped up to us. His horse's sides were flaked with spume, and the gallant beast quivered in every limb. The rider was deathly pale; one arm hung down limply, his side was stained with blood. He rolled from side to side, having scarcely sufficient strength to keep his seat in the saddle.

He endeavoured to salute Count Louis, while I, leaning forward, placed my arm round his waist to support him.

"My lord," he said, "the Admiral——" and stopped helpless.

"'Tis one of Coligny's gentlemen," I exclaimed, "he has come on the same errand as myself. There were three or four of us."

The wounded cavalier looked into my face. "Le Blanc!" he said feebly; "it is all right," and with that his head fell forward, and he dropped dead across his horse's neck.

"A brave and gallant gentleman!" exclaimed Count Louis. "France should be proud of her sons!"

Lifting him from his horse, we laid him on the plain and turned away. On that awful day no one had leisure for sorrow; the sorrow would come afterwards.

It was useless now attempting to return to the Admiral, so I joined my English comrade.

"You are hurt?" I said anxiously.

"A trifle; no more. Where is Bellievre?"

"With the Admiral. Coligny is badly wounded. We have lost the battle."

"There is time to gain the victory yet!"

"You do not understand. The army is gone; it is a mere mob, utterly helpless; we are the only troops left. The royalists are slaying at their pleasure."

"In that case," said he gravely, "we have serious work before us. Who was the noble old man killed in the last charge?"

"The Count of St. Cyr, one of the bravest gentlemen in the Huguenot army. It will grieve the Admiral sorely to hear of his death."

"He was a splendid soldier. Ah, the bugles are sounding. Edmond, my friend, I fear the worst of the day is still to come."

My English friend was right. What had gone before was the play of children compared with what followed. We had the whole force of Anjou's army opposed to us. Hour after hour we retreated, fighting every step of the way. Of the eighteen thousand Huguenots who had marched out to battle it seemed as if we alone remained. Again and again the royalists bore down in overwhelming numbers; their heavy guns ploughed lanes through our ranks; the arquebusiers pelted us with bullets unceasingly; the horsemen charged with desperate fury.

But in spite of everything we held together; for if we once gave way the doom of our beloved general was sealed.

"Remember, brave hearts," cried Count Louis, "that we are fighting for the Admiral! We must die for Coligny!"

He himself displayed the most wonderful bravery; nothing daunted him; beset by death on every hand he remained cool and resolute, rallying us after every onset, rousing the faint-hearted by his own indomitable courage.

At last the blessed darkness came to our relief. The rain of bullets ceased; we no longer heard the thundering beat of galloping horses in our rear, were no longer called to face about in order to repel some fierce cavalry charge. The pursuit had stopped; the victors had returned to celebrate their triumph.

We marched on in the darkness of the night, gloomy and weary. Some were too tired and dispirited even to talk; others—but only a few—grumbled bitterly at their leaders, telling each other that if this or that had been done, we should have gained the victory. Many of the poor fellows were badly hurt; some sank exhausted to the ground, from which they would never rise again.

At Parthenay we overtook the Admiral and the few troops he had been able to collect. When morning came, Felix was one of the first to meet me, and I had never seen him so down-hearted. His bright smile, his happy, cheery looks had all gone; he hung his head in shame.

"It is terrible, Edmond," he said; "the Cause is ruined, and we are disgraced. I would rather we had all died on the field."

"Nonsense!" I replied, endeavouring to hearten him; "we are of far more use alive than dead. And to be beaten is not to be disgraced. Had you seen the Count of St. Cyr die you would not use that word. But what of our chief? Is he seriously wounded?"

"His jaw is broken by a pistol-shot."

"Yet I warrant he has not given way to despair!"

"No," he replied with something of his old brightness, "a Coligny does not despair."

"Nor does a Bellievre!" I returned smiling. "We shall rally the runaways in a few days, and Coligny will command an army again."

The defeat was, however, a heavier one than I guessed, and only Anjou's folly saved us from utter destruction. Instead of hunting us down with his whole force he turned aside to besiege St. Jean d'Angely, and thus gave our leaders time to form fresh plans. Strong garrisons were sent to defend Niort and Angouleme, while the main part of the beaten army retired to Rochelle.

It was a dismal entry into the town. The citizens came to meet us, the men sullen and downcast, the women white-faced and weeping. Many were searching eagerly among the war-worn band for the dear ones they would never meet again on earth. On that dreadful day scores of women learned for the first time that they were already widowed, and that their helpless little ones were fatherless.

Opposite the hotel I perceived Jeanne and my mother, and on seeing me their faces lit up with happy smiles. I could not go to them then, but the instant my duties permitted I ran again into the street. They were still in the same place, waiting.

"I thank God for this blessing, my son," said my mother. "I feared I had lost you for ever. Let us hasten home; you are weary and faint."

"But are you not hurt, Edmond?" cried my pretty sister. "Oh, how my heart ached at sight of those poor wounded men! They must have suffered torture on their long march!"

"Did Jacques not find you?" my mother asked presently.

"Yes, he was with me at the beginning of the last battle, but I have not seen him since. He may have escaped though, for all that; numbers besides ourselves got away. Bellievre is safe, and so is Roger Braund. They have acted like heroes!"

"I saw them both," said Jeanne, blushing prettily; "Monsieur Braund has been wounded."

"Yes," I replied laughing, "he will need a skilful nurse. But where is my father? Is he not still in Rochelle?"

"No," said Jeanne with a sigh, "an order came from the Admiral three weeks ago for him to take fifty men to St. Jean d'Angely. I know it is selfish, but I wish Edmond, oh, I wish he could have stayed with us. It seems to me there is no safety outside the walls of Rochelle."

"Rochelle may be as dangerous as any other place," I remarked, not caring to let them know that Monseigneur was marching on St. Jean d'Angely. "But here we are at the house; does my aunt still keep her room?"

"Yes," replied Jeanne with a smile, "though I believe her illness is more fanciful than real. But she is very good and kind, and we humour her fancies."

It was very pleasant to be home again; to see the loving looks and to receive the tender caresses of my mother and sister. They were eager to hear what had happened, and the tears came to their eyes as I described the sufferings of my gallant comrades. They were brave, too, and instead of being crushed by our defeat looked forward to happier times.

"Perhaps the king will stop the cruel war," said my mother hopefully, "and let us worship God in peace. How can he think we wish to harm our beautiful France? We ask so little; surely he could grant us our modest request.

"I believe he would if it were not for his mother," I said, "and she is afraid of the Guises. They are hand in glove with the Pope and the Spaniards."

"Will Monseigneur try to capture Rochelle?" asked Jeanne.

"It is very likely, but he will not succeed; Rochelle can never be taken by an enemy."

I stayed very late with them that night, for there were many things to talk about, and they were so glad to see me that even at the end I was loth to depart.

The next day my comrades, who purposely stayed away on the previous evening, accompanied me home, and were made much of by my mother and Jeanne.

These occasional visits were like oases in a dreary desert. We tried to banish all thoughts of the war, and to talk as cheerfully as if there were no misery in the land. But for Felix and me these days of happy idleness speedily came to an end. There was much to be done, and Coligny needed our services. Instead of being cast down by his reverse at Montcontour, our leader was already planning a gigantic scheme which should help to repair our broken fortunes.

Meanwhile the garrison at St. Jean d'Angely was offering a splendid resistance to the enemy. Anjou was pressing the siege with vigour, King Charles himself was in the trenches—I never held, as some of my comrades did, that the king was a coward—but the handful of troops defied the royal brothers and all their force.

One morning as our chief came from his chamber, the ante-room being filled with his gentlemen and the leaders of the army, he stopped and laid his hand with a kindly touch on my shoulder.

"My young friend," he said, "we are all proud of your father. The reports from St. Jean d'Angely declare that he is the very heart of the defence."

"I thank you, my lord, for your kind words," I stammered, blushing crimson with pride, for to hear my father thus honoured was far sweeter than any praise of myself could have been.

And a day or two later Rochelle was ringing with his name. Men lauded his courage and prowess, speaking of him almost as if he were our beloved leader himself.

Heading a body of troops in the early morning, he had sallied forth, destroyed a big gun, and driven the besiegers pell-mell from the trenches. Anjou had scowled angrily, but King Charles was reported to have declared it a most brilliant feat of arms.

It was a proud day for all of us, but our joy was shortly changed to mourning. Coligny, with most of his attendants, had left Rochelle for Saintes; the rest of us, with two hundred troopers, were to depart the next day. I had spent the evening at home, and accompanied by Felix had returned to the hotel.

"Is that you, Le Blanc?" cried one of my comrades. "What means this treasonable correspondence with the enemy?" and he handed me a sealed packet.

"For me?" I exclaimed, taking it in surprise. "Where does it come from?"

"Ah," said he, laughing merrily, "that is a nice question to ask! One of Monseigneur's rascals brought it under a flag of truce to the officer at the gate, and he sent it here. I should have put you under arrest, and forwarded the correspondence to the Admiral."

I looked at the letter curiously, and with a vague feeling of uneasiness. It bore my name, but the handwriting was unfamiliar. "One of Anjou's troopers!" I muttered.

I walked slowly away, still accompanied by Felix and carrying the packet in my hand. I had no idea of the sender, nor of the contents, yet strangely enough, when we reached our room, my fingers trembled so much that I could hardly break the seal.

"What is it?" asked Felix anxiously. "What do you fear?"

"Nothing," I replied with a forced laugh; "I am foolish; that is all."

Yes, there was my name in crabbed letters; I glanced from it to the foot of the page: the letter was signed, "Renaud L'Estang."

"L'Estang!" I muttered, "L'Estang! Why, that is the name of my adventurer. Of course he is with Anjou; but why should he write to me? Perhaps 'tis to thank me again, or to tell me something about Cordel! Ah, yes, that would be it. He must have gathered some fresh information concerning the rascally lawyer!"

I gave a deep sigh of relief, yet studiously avoided what he had written. But this was childish folly! Courage! What had I to fear? Cordel had already done his worst. We had lost our estates—it mattered little who gained them.

"Monsieur, you once did me a priceless service. I have never forgotten—shall never forget——"—"Just as I thought," I remarked aloud, "the poor fellow still feels under an obligation to me!"—"Believe me, monsieur, it is with poignant grief I write this brief note."—"Ah," I continued, "he has discovered some fresh villainy. Well, well, it is of little consequence."—"I have been with Monseigneur at St. Jean d'Angely——"

"D'Angely!" I cried; "Felix, he has been at the siege. Read it, my friend, my eyes swim, I cannot see the letters, they all run into one another."—"Your father was the bravest."—"Oh, Felix, Felix, do you understand? How can I tell them? How can I comfort them? And I must ride away in the morning and leave them to their grief! Read it to me slowly, dear friend, while I try to think."



CHAPTER XIII

A Daring Enterprise

After the lapse of many years, I close my eyes, and leaning back in my chair listen again to my comrade as with tremulous voice he reads the fatal letter.—"Monsieur, you once did me a priceless service. I have never forgotten—shall never forget. Believe me, monsieur, it is with poignant grief I write this brief note. I have been with Monseigneur at St. Jean d'Angely throughout the siege. Your father was the bravest man among our enemies. His wonderful skill and courage have gained the admiration of friend and foe alike. The king spoke of his bravery with the highest praise: Monseigneur has declared openly that the Sieur Le Blanc alone stood between him and the capture of the town. He has indeed proved himself one of the finest soldiers in France; but, alas! monsieur, the Sieur Le Blanc is no more. He fell not an hour ago at the head of his men, in a brilliant sortie. Remembering your kindness to me, my heart bleeds for you. I write this with the deepest sorrow, but it may be less painful for you to learn of your loss in this way than to be tortured by a rumour, the truth of which you cannot prove. Accept my heartfelt sympathy."

"My father is dead, Felix," I said in a dazed manner.

"He fought a good fight," replied my comrade. "His memory will live in the hearts of our people."

This might be true, but the knowledge did little to soften my grief. And I was thinking not of my father alone—after all he had died a hero's death—but of my mother and sister. How could I tell them this mournful news? How could I comfort them?

"Felix," I said, "we are going away to-morrow."

"You must stay here," he said firmly, "at least for a few days. I will inform our patron; he is not likely to leave Saintes for a week. Shall I come home with you, or do you prefer to be alone?"

"I will go alone, Felix; it will be better for them. I will join you at Saintes. Good-bye, dear friend."

"Tell your mother and sister how deeply I sympathize with them," he said. "I would come with you, but, as you say, perhaps it is better not."

"I think they will prefer to be alone," I answered, grasping his hand in farewell.

I went out into the deserted street, walking unsteadily, and hardly conscious of anything beyond my one absorbing sorrow. I reached the house at last, and in answer to my summons a servant opened the door. No, the ladies had not retired; they were still downstairs.

Perhaps my face betrayed the miserable truth; perhaps some chord of sympathy passed from me to them—I know not. They jumped up and came forward with a sudden fear in their eyes. I had already bidden them farewell, and they did not expect to see me again, until I rode from the city in the morning.

My mother gazed at me earnestly, but said nothing; Jeanne cried impulsively, "What is it, Edmond? There is bad news! Oh, Edmond, is it about our father?"

"You must be brave," I said gently, taking a hand of each, "very brave. Yes, I have received bad news from St. Jean d'Angely. There has been a fierce fight; our father headed a sortie, and has been seriously hurt. He was the bravest man there, every one says so from the king downwards. Even his enemies praise him."

"Edmond," said my mother quietly, "we are strong enough to bear the truth—is your father dead?"

Words were not needed to answer that question; the answer was plain in my face, and those two dear ones understood. Oh, it was pitiful to see their white faces, and the misery in their eyes! And yet I could feel a pride, too, in their wonderful bravery. They wept silently in each; other's arms, and presently my mother said softly, "It is God's will; let us pray to Him for strength to bear our loss."

I stayed with them for four days, being I believe of some comfort in that sorrowful time, and then my mother herself suggested that I should return to my duty.

"You belong to the Cause, my son," she said, "and not to us. It is a heavy trial to let you go, but your father would have wished it. Perhaps the good God, in His mercy, may guard you through all dangers, and we may meet again. But, if not, we are in' His hands. Tell Felix we thank him for his kind message."

"Roger, too, will grieve for our loss," I said. "He admired my father greatly."

The Englishmen had accompanied the Admiral, so that Roger had left Rochelle when the news arrived.

Early on the morning fixed for my departure I wished my mother and sister good-bye, and returned to the hotel. Coligny was still at Saintes, and I waited for a letter that the commandant had requested me to deliver to him. I had gone into the courtyard to see about my horse when a man, riding in, exclaimed, "Oh, I am in time, monsieur; I feared you had gone."

"Jacques!" I cried with delight, "surely you have taken a long while to travel from Montcontour to Rochelle! And yet you have a good beast!"

"As good an animal as ever carried saddle!" said Jacques, eyeing his horse complacently; "but then I have not owned it long."

"Have you been to the house?"

"Yes, monsieur," and his face became grave, "it was madame who told me where to find you. She said you were about to rejoin the army."

He did not speak of my loss, though it was plain he had heard the news, and indeed several days passed before the subject was mentioned between us. Jacques had been brought up in my father's service, and he was unwilling to talk about the death of his loved master.

"Yes, I am going to join the Admiral," I said; "but have you not had enough of adventures? Would you not rather stay at Rochelle?"

"While monsieur is wandering about the country?" he asked. "Ah," as a servant came from the building, "here is a summons for monsieur!"

The commandant had finished his letter, and having received his instructions I returned to the courtyard, mounted my horse, and, followed by Jacques, started on my journey. I was very glad of his company, since it took me out of myself, and gave me less opportunity for brooding.

"Did Monsieur Bellievre and the Englishman escape from Montcontour?" he asked, as we reached the open country.

"Yes, we shall meet them both at Saintes; but about yourself—I was afraid you were killed."

"So was I," he laughed. "Monsieur, it was a terrible day, and a still more terrible night. Our poor fellows received little mercy. Monseigneur's troopers gave no quarter. I got a nasty cut, and hid in a hollow till all was quiet; then I crawled out, took my choice of several riderless horses, and rode into the darkness. I thought I might find the army somewhere, but there was no army to be found."