two having been killed under him; his sword was
broken, and he had taken from a sailor one of their heavy hatchets,
which he whirled round his head with the greatest apparent ease. From
time to time he turned and faced his enemy, like the wild boar who
cannot make up his mind to fly, and turns desperately on his hunter. The
Flemings, who by monseigneur's advice had fought without cuirasses, were
active in the pursuit, and gave no rest to the Angevin army. Something
like remorse seized the unknown at the sight of this disaster.

"Enough, gentlemen," cried he, in French, "to-night they are driven from
Antwerp, and in a week will be driven from Flanders; ask no more of the
God of battles."

"Ah! he is French," cried Joyeuse; "I guessed it, traitor. Ah! be
cursed, and may you die the death of a traitor."

This furious imprecation seemed to disconcert the unknown more than a
thousand swords raised against him; he turned, and conqueror as he was,
fled as rapidly as the conquered. But this retreat of a single man
changed nothing in the state of affairs. Fear is contagious, it seized
the entire army, and the soldiers began to fly like madmen. The horses
went fast, in spite of fatigue, for they also felt the influence of
fear; the men dispersed to seek a shelter, and in some hours the army,
as an army, existed no longer. This was the time when the dykes were to
be opened. From Lier to Termonde, from Haesdouk to Malines--each little
river, swollen by its tributaries--each canal overflowed, and spread
over the flat country its contingent of furious water.

Thus, when the fugitive French began to stop, having tired out the
Antwerpians, whom they had seen return to the town, followed by the
soldiers of the Prince of Orange--when those who had escaped from the
carnage of the night believed themselves saved, and stopped to breathe
for an instant, some with a prayer, and others with a curse, then a new
enemy, blind and pitiless, was preparing for them. Joyeuse had commanded
his sailors, now reduced to eight hundred, to make a halt; they were the
only persons who had preserved some order, the Comte de St. Aignan
having vainly tried to rally his foot soldiers.

The Duc d'Anjou, at the head of the fugitives, mounted on an excellent
horse, and accompanied by a single servant, pushed forward without
appearing to think of anything.

"He has no heart," cried some.

"His sang-froid is magnificent," said others.

Some hours of repose,