second regiment met them and was crushed, pounded in the hurtling, grinding encounter.  “A Jenkins, a Jenkins!” still roared the heroic Duke:  “St. George for Mayfair!” The Footmen of England still yelled their terrific battle-cry, “Hurra, hurra!” On they went; regiment after regiment was annihilated, until, scared at the very trample of the advancing warriors, the dismayed troops of France screaming fled.  Gathering his last warriors round about him, Nemours determined to make a last desperate effort.  ’Twas vain:  the ranks met; the next moment the truncheon of the Prince of Orleans was dashed from his hand by the irresistible mace of the Duke Jenkins; his horse’s shins were broken by the same weapon.  Screaming with agony the animal fell.  Jenkins’s hand was at the Duke’s collar in a moment, and had he not gasped out, “Je me rends!” he would have been throttled in that dreadful grasp!

Three hundred and forty-two standards, seventy-nine regiments, their baggage, ammunition, and treasure-chests, fell into the hands of the victorious Duke.  He had avenged the honor of Old England; and himself presenting the sword of the conquered Nemours to Prince Henri, who now came up, the Prince bursting into tears, fell on his neck and said, “Duke, I owe my crown to my patron saint and you.”  It was indeed a glorious victory:  but what will not British valor attain?

The Duke of Nemours, having despatched a brief note to Paris, saying, “Sire, all is lost except honor!” was sent off in confinement; and in spite of the entreaties of his captor, was hardly treated with decent politeness.  The priests and the noble regiments who rode back when the affair was over, were for having the Prince shot at once, and murmured loudly against “cet Anglais brutal” who interposed in behalf of the prisoner.  Henri V. granted the Prince his life; but, no doubt misguided by the advice of his noble and ecclesiastical counsellors, treated the illustrious English Duke with marked coldness, and did not even ask him to supper that night.

“Well!” said Jenkins, “I and my merry men can sup alone.”  And, indeed, having had the pick of the plunder of about 28,000 men, they had wherewithal to make themselves pretty comfortable.  The prisoners (25,403) were all without difficulty induced to assume the white cockade.  Most of them had those marks of loyalty ready sewn in their flannel-waistcoats, where they swore they had worn them ever since 1830.  This we may believe, and we will; but the Prince Henri was too politic or too good-humored in the moment of victory, to doubt the sincerity of his new subjects’ protestations, and received the Colonels and Generals affably at his table.

The next morning a proclamation was issued to the united armies.  “Faithful soldiers of France and Navarre,” said the Prince, “the saints have won for us a great victory—­the enemies of our religion have been overcome—­the lilies are restored to their native soil.  Yesterday morning at eleven o’clock the army under my command engaged that which was led by his serene Highness the Duke de Nemours.  Our forces were but a third in number when compared with those of the enemy.  My faithful chivalry and nobles made the strength, however, equal.