the tried friend of the Prince of Orange, and his colleague during the memorable scenes at Antwerp, was wounded in the foot during the action, by an accidental discharge of his own pistol.  The injury, although apparently slight, caused his death in a few days.  There seemed a strange coincidence in his good and evil fortunes.  A casual wound in the hand from his own pistol while he was on his way to Brussels, to greet Alva upon his first arrival, had saved him from the scaffold.  And now in his first pitched battle with the Duke, this seemingly trifling injury in the foot was destined to terminate his existence.  Another peculiar circumstance had marked the event.  At a gay supper in the course of this campaign, Hoogstraaten had teased Count Louis, in a rough, soldierly way, with his disaster at Jemmingen.  He had affected to believe that the retreat upon that occasion had been unnecessary.  “We have been now many days in the Netherlands;” said he, “and we have seen nothing of the Spaniards but their backs.”—­“And when the Duke does break loose,” replied Louis, somewhat nettled, “I warrant you will see their faces soon enough, and remember them for the rest of your life.”  The half-jesting remark was thus destined to become a gloomy prophecy.

This was the only important action daring the campaign.  Its perfect success did not warp Alva’s purpose, and, notwithstanding the murmurs of many of his officers, he remained firm in his resolution.  After the termination of the battle on the Geta, and the Duke’s obstinate refusal to pursue his advantage, the Baron de Chevreau dashed his pistol to the ground, in his presence, exclaiming that the Duke would never fight.  The Governor smiled at the young man’s chagrin, seemed even to approve his enthusiasm, but reminded him that it was the business of an officer to fight, of a general to conquer.  If the victory were bloodless, so much the better for all.

This action was fought on the 20th of October.  A few days afterwards, the Prince made his junction with Genlis at Waveren, a place about three leagues from Louvain and from Brussels.  This auxiliary force was, however, insignificant.  There were only five hundred cavalry and three thousand foot, but so many women and children, that it seemed rather an emigrating colony than an invading army.  They arrived late.  If they had come earlier, it would have been of little consequence, for it had been written that no laurels were to be gathered in that campaign.  The fraternal spirit which existed between the Reformers in all countries was all which could be manifested upon the occasion.  The Prince was frustrated in his hopes of a general battle, still more bitterly disappointed by the supineness of the country.  Not a voice was raised to welcome the deliverer.  Not a single city opened its gates.  All was crouching, silent, abject.  The rising, which perhaps would have been universal had a brilliant victory been obtained, was, by the masterly tactics of Alva, rendered an almost inconceivable idea.  The mutinous demonstrations in the Prince’s camp became incessant; the soldiers were discontented and weary.  What the Duke had foretold was coming to pass, for the Prince’s army was already dissolving.