The army of Henry was encamped opposite to them for the most part in better order.  The noble cavalry regiments found a village in which they made themselves pretty comfortable, Jenkins’s Foot taking possession of the kitchens and garrets of the buildings.  The Irish Brigade, accustomed to lie abroad, were quartered in some potato fields, where they sang Moore’s melodies all night.  There were, besides the troops regular and irregular, about three thousand priests and abbes with the army, armed with scourging-whips, and chanting the most lugubrious canticles:  these reverend men were found to be a hindrance rather than otherwise to the operations of the regular forces.

It was a touching sight, on the morning before the battle, to see the alacrity with which Jenkins’s regiment sprung up at the first reveille of the bell, and engaged (the honest fellows!) in offices almost menial for the benefit of their French allies.  The Duke himself set the example, and blacked to a nicety the boots of Henri.  At half-past ten, after coffee, the brilliant warriors of the cavalry were ready; their clarions rung to horse, their banners were given to the wind, their shirt-collars were exquisitely starched, and the whole air was scented with the odors of their pomatums and pocket-handkerchiefs.

Jenkins had the honor of holding the stirrup for Henri.  “My faithful Duke!” said the Prince, pulling him by the shoulder-knot, “thou art always at thy post.”  “Here, as in Wellington Street, sire,” said the hero, blushing.  And the Prince made an appropriate speech to his chivalry, in which allusions to the lilies, Saint Louis, Bayard and Henri Quatre, were, as may be imagined, not spared.  “Ho! standard-bearer!” the Prince concluded, “fling out my oriflamme.  Noble gents of France, your King is among you to-day!”

Then turning to the Prince of Ballybunion, who had been drinking whiskey-punch all night with the Princes of Donegal and Connemara, “Prince,” he said, “the Irish Brigade has won every battle in the French history—­we will not deprive you of the honor of winning this.  You will please to commence the attack with your brigade.”  Bending his head until the green plumes of his beaver mingled with the mane of the Shetland pony which he rode, the Prince of Ireland trotted off with his aides-de-camp; who rode the same horses, powerful grays, with which a dealer at Nantz had supplied them on their and the Prince’s joint bill at three months.

The gallant sons of Erin had wisely slept until the last minute in their potato-trenches, but rose at once at the summons of their beloved Prince.  Their toilet was the work of a moment—­a single shake and it was done.  Rapidly forming into a line, they advanced headed by their Generals,—­who, turning their steeds into a grass-field, wisely determined to fight on foot.  Behind them came the line of British foot under the illustrious Jenkins, who marched in advance perfectly collected, and smoking a Manilla