Like all the actors in this terrible scene, they saw the progress of the inundation, and were pursued by the furious waters; but by good luck found in this spot a position strong both against men and water.  The inhabitants, knowing themselves in safety, had not quitted their homes, and had only sent off their women, children, and old men to Brussels; therefore the gendarmes met with resistance when they arrived; but death howled behind them, and they attacked like desperate men, triumphed over all obstacles, lost ten men, but established the others, and turned out the Flemings.

Such was the recital which Henri received from them.

“And the rest of the army?” asked he.

“Look,” replied the ensign; “the corpses which pass each moment answer your question.”

“But—­my brother,” said Henri, in a choking voice.

“Alas!  M. le Comte, we do not know.  He fought like a lion, but he survived the battle; as to the inundation I cannot say.”

Henri shook his head sadly; then, after a minute’s pause, said, “And the duke?”

“Comte, the duke fled one of the first.  He was mounted on a white horse, with no spot but a black star on the forehead.  Well, just now we saw the horse pass among a mass of wrecks, the foot of a rider was caught in the stirrup and was floating on the water.”

“Great God!”

“Good heavens!” echoed Remy, who had drawn near and heard the tale.

“One of my men ventured down into the water and seized the reins of the floating horse, and drew it up sufficiently to enable us to see the white boot and gold spur that the duke wore.  But the waters were rushing past, and the man was forced to let go to save himself, and we saw no more.  We shall not even have the consolation of giving a Christian burial to our prince.”

“Dead! he also? the heir to the crown!  What a misfortune!”

Remy turned to his mistress, and with an expression impossible to describe, said,

“He is dead, madame, you see.”

“I praise the Lord, who has spared us a crime,” said she, raising her eyes to heaven.

“Yes, but it prevents our vengeance.”

“Vengeance only belongs to a man when God forgets.”

“But you, yourself, comte,” said the ensign to Henri, “what are you about to do?”

The comte started.  “I?” said he.

“Yes.”

“I will wait here till my brother’s body passes,” replied he, gloomily, “then I will try to draw him to land.  You may be sure that if once I hold him, I shall not let go.”

Remy looked pityingly at the young man; but Diana heard nothing—­she was praying.

CHAPTER LXX.

Transfiguration.