“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.