Down the hill they came in beautiful order, a troop of Italian cavalry, their helmets gleaming, their swords flashing in the sunlight.

“De Pilles is lost!” muttered a man behind me.

“No, no!” cried Felix; “he will beat them off.  See, he is forming up his men.  Ah, bravo! bravo!  Look, there isn’t a coward among them!”

With a rush, the Italians swept down on the guns.  They were brave men and seasoned fighters, but they came to grief that day.  Though their animals floundered in the soft soil they struggled on valiantly; they reached the guns, they wheeled and circled, they struck fierce blows with their glittering blades, but, wherever they rode, there they found a grim and sturdy opponent.

Back they went for a breathing-space, and then, with a magnificent charge, once more flung themselves on the handful of gunners.  My heart stood still when, for a moment, our gallant few disappeared as if overwhelmed by the waves of a human sea.

A triumphant shout from Felix roused me.  The waves had rolled back, broken and shattered, and we raised cheer after cheer as the baffled horsemen slowly climbed the hill.  De Pilles had saved his guns, and in Monseigneur’s Italian troop there were more than a score of empty saddles.  It was a good beginning for us.

The battle now became general.  The guns, dragged from the marsh on to firm ground, opened fire against the breastworks, the infantry marched steadily forward, two troops of horse worked round to the right, seeking a favourable place for attack.

But our progress was slow.  Monseigneur’s troops, fighting with rare vigour and courage, forced us back again and again; their position seemed impregnable, and our men fell fast.  Unless we could break through somewhere the battle was lost.

By extreme good fortune, I was close behind the Admiral when he turned his head, seeking a messenger.

“Le Blanc” he cried, courteous as ever, even in the midst of the terrible strife, “ride to De Courcy Lamont, and tell him to charge home.  Tell him that unless he can make a gap for us, the day is lost.  And say that the Admiral trusts him.”

Bowing low, I spurred my horse sharply, and darted off.  Around me rose the din of battle—­the thunder of the guns, the savage cries of angry men closely locked in deadly combat.  Already Monseigneur’s troops were shouting “Victory!” and I had visions of an even more fearful disaster than at Jarnac.

De Courcy Lamont listened to my message with a proud smile on his face.  His troopers were faint and weary; many were more or less seriously wounded; they had lost several of their comrades; but Coligny’s words acted like magic.

“The Admiral trusts to us!” said their leader.  “Shall we disappoint him?”

“No! no!” they cried; “we will die for the Admiral!  Let us charge!”

“I thank you, gentlemen,” said De Courcy simply.

It was a desperate enterprise, and would never have been attempted but for the love these gallant men bore to our great chief.  For his sake they were going to throw themselves upon death.