He pressed his horse’s sides with the spurs, and waving his sword dashed forward, his battle-cry, “St. Cyr!” ringing out high and clear.  It was a sight to make one weep, and yet feel proud that one’s country could produce such a hero.

Forward we went, and the air was filled with cries of “St Cyr!  For the Admiral!  Hurrah!  Hurrah!” as we plunged into the midst of the press.

“Forward, my children!” cried St Cyr, as he carved a passage for himself through the throng; “forward!”

He was a splendid rider and a skilful swordsman, but his enemies closed round him thickly.  Savage blows rained upon him from every side, and at last, with a “Fight on, my children!” the gallant veteran sank bleeding to the ground.  Montcontour cost France numerous brave men but none braver than the chivalrous St. Cyr.

His fall, instead of dispiriting his followers, roused them to fury!  No one asked or gave quarter; it was a fight to the death, and when finally we succeeded in breaking through the royalist horse, half of our number lay lifeless on the plain.  Some there were—­St. Cyr’s personal attendants notably—­so fired with grief and anger at the death of their beloved chief that they were for turning back and renewing the combat.

This, however, was stark madness, so we galloped on, with the royalists like sleuth-hounds on our track.

Presently they slackened their pace, and then abandoned the pursuit, for we were approaching our cavalry, commanded by Count Louis of Nassau.

“You are welcome, brave hearts!” he exclaimed, “every man is needed,” and his troops cheered us vigorously.

“My lord,” I said, riding up and saluting, “I have come from the Admiral; he begs that you will cover the retreat, for unless you can do so all is lost.”

“Where is the Admiral, monsieur?”

“My lord, when the centre broke, he was carried away by the rush.  He has been wounded in the head, and I fear seriously.”

“Did you leave him in safety?”

“He was surrounded by his bodyguard; at least, by all those who were left alive.”

“Will the centre rally, think you?”

“There is no centre; it is a scattered mob.  I fear there is no army except the troops you have here.  The left, I am sure, has given way.”

He was about to reply when a cavalier galloped up to us.  His horse’s sides were flaked with spume, and the gallant beast quivered in every limb.  The rider was deathly pale; one arm hung down limply, his side was stained with blood.  He rolled from side to side, having scarcely sufficient strength to keep his seat in the saddle.

He endeavoured to salute Count Louis, while I, leaning forward, placed my arm round his waist to support him.

“My lord,” he said, “the Admiral——­” and stopped helpless.

“’Tis one of Coligny’s gentlemen,” I exclaimed, “he has come on the same errand as myself.  There were three or four of us.”