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.