Dripping from head to foot, but safe and sound, the army had at last reached the beach at Nieuport.  Vere had refused his soldiers permission to denude themselves in crossing of their shoes and lower garments.  There was no time for that, he said, and they would either earn new clothes for themselves that day, or never need doublet and hose again any more in the world.  Some hours had elapsed before the tedious and difficult crossing of infantry, cavalry, artillery, and munition trains had been accomplished.

Lewis Gunther, with eight squadrons of picked cavalry, including his own company, Maurice’s own, Frederic Henry’s own, with Batenburg’s arquebus-men, and other veterans, was first to place himself in battle order on the beach.  His squadrons in iron corslet and morion, and armed with lances, carbines, and sabres, stretched across from the water to the downs.  He had not been long stationed there when he observed that far away in the direction of Ostend the beach was growing black with troops.  He believed them at first to be his brother Ernest and his forces returning victorious from their hazardous expedition, but he was soon undeceived.

A couple of troopers from Ostend came spurring full gallop along the strand, and almost breathless with dismay, announced that it was the whole army of the archduke advancing in line of battle.  They were instantly sent to the rear, without being allowed to speak further, in order that they might deliver their message in private to the commander-in-chief.  And most terrible were the tidings to which Maurice now listened in very secret audience.  Ernest was utterly defeated, his command cut to pieces, the triumphant foe advancing rapidly, and already in full sight.  The stadholder heard the tale without flinching, and having quietly ordered the messengers upon their lives not to open their lips on the subject to living soul, sent them securely guarded in a boat on board one of the war-ships in the offing.  With perfect cheerfulness he then continued his preparations, consulting with Vere, on whom he mainly relied for the marshalling of the army in the coming conflict.  Undecided as he had sometimes shown himself, he was resolute now.  He called no council of war, for he knew not how much might be known or suspected of the disaster already sustained, and he had fully made up his mind as to the course to be pursued.  He had indeed taken a supreme resolution.  Entirely out of his own breast, without advising with any man, he calmly gave directions that every war-ship, transport, barge, or wherry should put to sea at once.  As the tide had now been long on the flood, the few vessels that had been aground—­within the harbour were got afloat, and the whole vast, almost innumerable armada, was soon standing out to sea.  No more heroic decision was ever taken by fighting man.