The wounded cavalier looked into my face.  “Le Blanc!” he said feebly; “it is all right,” and with that his head fell forward, and he dropped dead across his horse’s neck.

“A brave and gallant gentleman!” exclaimed Count Louis.  “France should be proud of her sons!”

Lifting him from his horse, we laid him on the plain and turned away.  On that awful day no one had leisure for sorrow; the sorrow would come afterwards.

It was useless now attempting to return to the Admiral, so I joined my English comrade.

“You are hurt?” I said anxiously.

“A trifle; no more.  Where is Bellievre?”

“With the Admiral.  Coligny is badly wounded.  We have lost the battle.”

“There is time to gain the victory yet!”

“You do not understand.  The army is gone; it is a mere mob, utterly helpless; we are the only troops left.  The royalists are slaying at their pleasure.”

“In that case,” said he gravely, “we have serious work before us.  Who was the noble old man killed in the last charge?”

“The Count of St. Cyr, one of the bravest gentlemen in the Huguenot army.  It will grieve the Admiral sorely to hear of his death.”

“He was a splendid soldier.  Ah, the bugles are sounding.  Edmond, my friend, I fear the worst of the day is still to come.”

My English friend was right.  What had gone before was the play of children compared with what followed.  We had the whole force of Anjou’s army opposed to us.  Hour after hour we retreated, fighting every step of the way.  Of the eighteen thousand Huguenots who had marched out to battle it seemed as if we alone remained.  Again and again the royalists bore down in overwhelming numbers; their heavy guns ploughed lanes through our ranks; the arquebusiers pelted us with bullets unceasingly; the horsemen charged with desperate fury.

But in spite of everything we held together; for if we once gave way the doom of our beloved general was sealed.

“Remember, brave hearts,” cried Count Louis, “that we are fighting for the Admiral!  We must die for Coligny!”

He himself displayed the most wonderful bravery; nothing daunted him; beset by death on every hand he remained cool and resolute, rallying us after every onset, rousing the faint-hearted by his own indomitable courage.

At last the blessed darkness came to our relief.  The rain of bullets ceased; we no longer heard the thundering beat of galloping horses in our rear, were no longer called to face about in order to repel some fierce cavalry charge.  The pursuit had stopped; the victors had returned to celebrate their triumph.

We marched on in the darkness of the night, gloomy and weary.  Some were too tired and dispirited even to talk; others—­but only a few—­grumbled bitterly at their leaders, telling each other that if this or that had been done, we should have gained the victory.  Many of the poor fellows were badly hurt; some sank exhausted to the ground, from which they would never rise again.