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!”