A dozen gentlemen had followed me, one of them carrying a flag, and as we galloped forward others joined us until we were fifty or sixty strong.  It was like riding into the very jaws of death, but they asked no questions; the sight of the flag was sufficient.  A body of infantry barred our path; we turned neither to right nor left, but crashed straight through them.  A few foot-soldiers ran with us, holding by the stirrups, going cheerfully to death, rather than seek safety in shameful flight.

Suddenly a burst of cheering in a foreign tongue reached us.  “Hurrah!  Hurrah!  For the Admiral!” and a troop of horse came tearing down.  It was the band of gallant Englishmen, and I recognized Roger Braund still bearing the captured trophy.  Fearing they might mistake us for royalists I rode forward hastily, crying in English, “Friends!  Friends!  We are Huguenots!”

CHAPTER XII

The Return to Rochelle

The conference was brief.  “Have you seen Count Louis?” I asked their leader.

“No, monsieur, but we will help you to find him.  Forward, brave boys; another blow for the Cause!”

They replied with a cheer—­oh, how those Englishmen cheered!—­and we raced on together, French and English, side by side, and death all around us.  I glanced at Roger; he had been wounded again, but there was no time to speak.

The retreat in this part of the field had not become general; numbers of soldiers in tolerably good order were still battling stubbornly, and presently we reached the remnant of several troops of cavalry.

In front of them was the venerable Count of St. Cyr, his snow-white beard sweeping to his waist.

“My lord,” I said, riding up, “can you tell me where to find Count Louis of Nassau?”

“Farther on the right, monsieur,” he replied courteously; “but you will find it difficult to reach him.  Ah, here they come!” and, glancing ahead, I perceived a cloud of horsemen preparing to swoop down upon us.

“Pray, my lord,” pleaded his chaplain, who was close by, “say something to encourage your troops.  They are faint and weary with fighting, and the odds against them are terrible.”

The stout-hearted warrior turned to his followers.  “Brave men need no words!” he cried; “do as you see me do!” and they greeted his speech with frantic cheers.

“You will be lucky to meet Count Louis after this!” cried Roger, as I returned to my men.

The royalists swept forward, threatening to engulf us as the wild sea swallows a tiny boat, and I must admit that my heart sank at sight of them.  But I was in the company of brave men, and following the flag of as brave a leader as could be found in all France.

He glanced round at us; there was a proud smile on his resolute face; his eyes glowed with fiery ardour.

“Charge, my children!” he cried, “and strike a last blow for St. Cyr!”