de Fort. Gamboa, its commandant, was severely wounded;
many other officers dead or dying; the outworks were in the hands of the
Hollanders; the slender piles on which the fortress rested in the water
were rudely shaken; the victory was almost complete.

And now there was a tremendous cheer of triumph. The beavers had done
their work, the barrier was bitten through and through, the salt water
rushed like a river through the ruptured dyke. A few moments later, and a
Zeeland barge, freighted with provisions, floated triumphantly into the
waters beyond, now no longer an inland sea. The deed was done--the
victory achieved. Nothing more was necessary than to secure it, to tear
the fatal barrier to fragments, to bury it, for its whole length, beneath
the waves. Then, after the isthmus had been utterly submerged, when the
Scheldt was rolled back into its ancient bed, when Parma's famous bridge
had become useless, when the maritime communication between Antwerp and
Holland had been thoroughly established, the Spaniards would have nothing
left for it but to drown like rats in their entrenchments or to abandon
the siege in despair. All this was in the hands of the patriots. The
Kowenstyn was theirs. The Spaniards were driven from the field, the
batteries of their forts silenced. For a long period the rebels were
unmolested, and felt themselves secure.

"We remained thus some three hours," says Captain James, an English
officer who fought in the action, and described it in rough, soldierly
fashion to Walsingham the same day, "thinking all things to be secure."
Yet in the very supreme moment of victory, the leaders, both of the
Hollanders and of the Antwerpers, proved themselves incompetent to their
position. With deep regret it must be admitted, that not only the
reckless Hohenlo, but the all-accomplished Sainte Aldegonde, committed
the gravest error. In the hour of danger, both had comported themselves
with perfect courage and conduct. In the instant of triumph, they gave
way to puerile exultation. With a celerity as censurable as it seems
incredible, both these commanders sprang into the first barge which had
thus floated across the dyke, in order that they might, in person, carry
the news of the victory to Antwerp, and set all the bells ringing and the
bonfires blazing. They took with them Ferrante Spinola, a
mortally-wounded Italian officer of rank, as a trophy of their battle,
and a boatload of beef and flour, as an earnest of