Meanwhile, the artillery from the ramparts had ceased, not that the combat had abated, but that it was so close it was impossible to fire on enemies without firing on friends also.

The Calvinist cavalry had charged, and done wonders.  Before the swords of its cavaliers a pathway opened, but the wounded Flemings pierced the horses with their large cutlasses, and in spite of this brilliant charge, a little confusion showed itself in the French columns, and they only kept their ground instead of advancing, while from the gates of the city new troops continually poured out.  All at once, almost under the walls of the city, a cry of “Anjou!  France!” was heard behind the mass of the Antwerpians.  This was Joyeuse and his 1,500 sailors, armed with hatchets and cutlasses.  They had to revenge their fleet in flames and two hundred of their companions burned or drowned.

No one could manage his long sword better than Joyeuse:  every blow cut open a head, every thrust took effect.  The group of Flemings on which he fell were destroyed like a field of corn by a legion of locusts.  Delighted with their first success, they continued to push on; but the Calvinist cavalry, surrounded by troops, began to lose ground.  M. de St. Aignan’s infantry, however, kept their place.

The prince had seen the burning of the fleet, and heard the reports of the cannon and the explosions, without suspecting anything but a fierce combat, which must terminate in victory for Joyeuse; for how could a few Flemish ships fight against the French fleet?  He expected, then, every minute a diversion on the part of Joyeuse, when the news was brought to him that the fleet was destroyed, and Joyeuse and his men fighting in the midst of the Flemings.  He now began to feel very anxious, the fleet being the means of retreat, and consequently the safety of the army.  He sent orders to the Calvinist cavalry to try a fresh charge, and men and horses, almost exhausted, rallied to attack the Antwerpians afresh.  The voice of Joyeuse was heard in the midst of the melee crying, “Hold firm, M. de St. Aignan.  France!  France!” and, like a reaper cutting a field of corn, his sword flew round, and cut down its harvest of men; the delicate favorite—­the Sybarite—­seemed to have put on with his cuirass the strength of a Hercules; and the infantry, hearing his voice above all the noise, and seeing his sword flashing, took fresh courage, and, like the cavalry, made a new effort, and returned to the combat.

But now the person that had been called monseigneur came out of the city on a beautiful black horse.  He wore black armor, and was followed by three hundred well-mounted cavaliers, whom the Prince of Orange had placed at his disposal.

By a parallel gate came out William himself, with a picked body of infantry who had not yet appeared.

Monseigneur hastened where he was most wanted, that is to say, where Joyeuse was fighting with his sailors.