Not a soul slept in the city.  The explosion had shook its walls, and thousands of people thronged the streets, their hearts beating high with expectation.  It was a moment of exquisite triumph.  The ‘Hope,’ word of happy augury, had not been relied upon in vain, and Parma’s seven months of patient labour had been annihilated in a moment.  Sainte Aldegonde and Gianibelli stood in the ‘Boors’ Sconce’ on the edge of the river.  They had felt and heard the explosion, and they were now straining their eyes through the darkness to mark the flight of the welcome rocket.

That rocket never rose.  And it is enough, even after the lapse of three centuries, to cause a pang in every heart that beats for human liberty to think of the bitter disappointment which crushed these great and legitimate hopes.  The cause lay in the incompetency and cowardice of the man who had been so unfortunately entrusted with a share in a noble enterprise.

Admiral Jacobzoon, paralyzed by the explosion, which announced his own triumph, sent off the barge, but did not wait for its return.  The boatmen, too, appalled by the sights and sounds which they had witnessed, and by the murky darkness which encompassed them, did not venture near the scene of action, but, after rowing for a short interval hither and thither, came back with the lying report that nothing had been accomplished, and that the bridge remained unbroken.  Sainte Aldegonde and Gianibelli were beside themselves with rage, as they surmised the imbecility of the Admiral, and devoted him in their hearts to the gallows, which he certainly deserved.  The wrath of the keen Italian may be conceived, now that his ingenious and entirely successful scheme was thus rendered fruitless by the blunders of the incompetent Fleming.

On the other side, there was a man whom no danger could appall.  Alexander had been thought dead, and the dismay among his followers was universal.  He was known to have been standing an instant before the explosion on the very block-house where the ‘Hope’ had struck.  After the first terrible moments had passed, his soldiers found their general lying, as if in a trance, on the threshold of St. Mary’s Fort, his drawn sword in his hand, with Cessis embracing his knees, and Gaetano extended at his side, stunned with a blow upon the head.

Recovering from his swoon, Parma was the first to spring to his feet.  Sword in hand, he rushed at once upon the bridge to mark the extent of the disaster.  The admirable structure, the result of so much patient and intelligent energy, was fearfully shattered; the bridge, the river, and the shore, strewed with the mangled bodies of his soldiers.  He expected, as a matter of certainty, that the fleet from below would instantly force its passage, destroy, the remainder of his troops-stunned as they were with the sudden catastrophe complete the demolition of the bridge, and then make its way to Antwerp, with ample reinforcements and supplies.  And Alexander saw that the expedition would be successful.  Momently expecting the attack, he maintained his courage and semblance of cheerfulness, with despair in his heart.