the soldier’s claim to the Constable’s sword.  The trooper advanced at once to the Constable, who stood there with the rest of the illustrious prisoners.  “Your excellency is a Christian,” said he; “please to declare upon your conscience and the faith of a cavalier, whether ’t was I that took you prisoner.  It need not surprise your excellency that I am but a soldier, since with soldiers his Majesty must wage his wars.”  “Certainly,” replied the Constable, “you took me and took my horse, and I gave you my sword.  My word, however, I pledged to Captain Valenzuela.”  It appearing, however, that the custom of Spain did not recognize a pledge given to any one but the actual captor, it was arranged that the soldier should give two thousand of his ten thousand ducats to the captain.  Thus the dispute ended.

Such was the brilliant victory of Saint Quentin, worthy to be placed in the same list with the world-renowned combats of Creqy and Agincourt.  Like those battles, also, it derives its main interest from the personal character of the leader, while it seems to have been hallowed by the tender emotions which sprang from his subsequent fate.  The victory was but a happy move in a winning game.  The players were kings, and the people were stakes—­not parties.  It was a chivalrous display in a war which was waged without honorable purpose, and in which no single lofty sentiment was involved.  The Flemish frontier was, however, saved for the time from the misery which was now to be inflicted upon the French border.  This was sufficient to cause the victory to be hailed as rapturously by the people as by the troops.  From that day forth the name of the brave Hollander was like the sound of a trumpet to the army.  “Egmont and Saint Quentin” rang through every mouth to the furthest extremity of Philip’s realms.  A deadly blow was struck to the very heart of France.  The fruits of all the victories of Francis and Henry withered.  The battle, with others which were to follow it, won by the same hand, were soon to compel the signature of the most disastrous treaty which had ever disgraced the history of France.

The fame and power of the Constable faded—­his misfortunes and captivity fell like a blight upon the ancient glory of the house of Montmorency—­his enemies destroyed his influence and his popularity—­while the degradation of the kingdom was simultaneous with the downfall of his illustrious name.  On the other hand, the exultation of Philip was as keen as his cold and stony nature would permit.  The magnificent palace-convent of the Escurial, dedicated to the saint on whose festival the battle had been fought, and built in the shape of the gridiron, on which that martyr had suffered, was soon afterwards erected in pious commemoration of the event.  Such was the celebration of the victory.  The reward reserved for the victor was to be recorded on a later page of history.