of cannon, the rattle of musketry; the tramp of heavy-aimed foot soldiers, the rush of cavalry, being distinctly heard.  The firmament trembled with the shock of the contending hosts, and was lurid with the rapid discharges of their artillery.  After a short, fierce engagement, the north-western army was beaten back in disorder, but rallied again, after a breathing-time, formed again into solid column, and again advanced.  Their foes, arrayed, as the witnesses affirmed, in a square and closely serried grove of spears’ and muskets, again awaited the attack.  Once more the aerial cohorts closed upon each other, all the signs and sounds of a desperate encounter being distinctly recognised by the eager witnesses.  The struggle seemed but short.  The lances of the south-eastern army seemed to snap “like hemp-stalks,” while their firm columns all went down together in mass, beneath the onset of their enemies.  The overthrow was complete, victors and vanquished had faded, the clear blue space, surrounded by black clouds, was empty, when suddenly its whole extent, where the conflict had so lately raged, was streaked with blood, flowing athwart the sky in broad crimson streams; nor was it till the five witnesses had fully watched and pondered over these portents that the vision entirely vanished.

So impressed were the grave magistrates of Utrecht with the account given next day by the sentinels, that a formal examination of the circumstances was made, the deposition of each witness, under oath, duly recorded, and a vast deal of consultation of soothsayers’ books and other auguries employed to elucidate the mystery.  It was universally considered typical of the anticipated battle between Count Louis and the Spaniards.  When, therefore, it was known that the patriots, moving from the south-east, had arrived at Mookerheyde, and that their adversaries, crossing the Meuse at Grave, had advanced upon them from the north-west, the result of the battle was considered inevitable; the phantom battle of Utrecht its infallible precursor.

Thus perished Louis of Nassau in the flower of his manhood, in the midst of a career already crowded with events such as might suffice for a century of ordinary existence.  It is difficult to find in history a more frank and loyal character.  His life was noble; the elements of the heroic and the genial so mixed in him that the imagination contemplates him, after three centuries, with an almost affectionate interest.  He was not a great man.  He was far from possessing the subtle genius or the expansive views of his brother; but, called as he was to play a prominent part in one of the most complicated and imposing dramas ever enacted by man, he, nevertheless, always acquitted himself with honor.  His direct, fearless and energetic nature commanded alike the respect of friend and foe.  As a politician, a soldier, and a diplomatist, he was busy, bold, and true.  He, accomplished by sincerity what many thought could only be compassed by trickery.