allying us
after every onset, rousing the faint-hearted by his own indomitable
courage.

At last the blessed darkness came to our relief. The rain of bullets
ceased; we no longer heard the thundering beat of galloping horses in
our rear, were no longer called to face about in order to repel some
fierce cavalry charge. The pursuit had stopped; the victors had returned
to celebrate their triumph.

We marched on in the darkness of the night, gloomy and weary. Some were
too tired and dispirited even to talk; others--but only a few--grumbled
bitterly at their leaders, telling each other that if this or that had
been done, we should have gained the victory. Many of the poor fellows
were badly hurt; some sank exhausted to the ground, from which they
would never rise again.

At Parthenay we overtook the Admiral and the few troops he had been able
to collect. When morning came, Felix was one of the first to meet me,
and I had never seen him so down-hearted. His bright smile, his happy,
cheery looks had all gone; he hung his head in shame.

"It is terrible, Edmond," he said; "the Cause is ruined, and we are
disgraced. I would rather we had all died on the field."

"Nonsense!" I replied, endeavouring to hearten him; "we are of far more
use alive than dead. And to be beaten is not to be disgraced. Had you
seen the Count of St. Cyr die you would not use that word. But what of
our chief? Is he seriously wounded?"

"His jaw is broken by a pistol-shot."

"Yet I warrant he has not given way to despair!"

"No," he replied with something of his old brightness, "a Coligny does
not despair."

"Nor does a Bellievre!" I returned smiling. "We shall rally the runaways
in a few days, and Coligny will command an army again."

The defeat was, however, a heavier one than I guessed, and only Anjou's
folly saved us from utter destruction. Instead of hunting us down with
his whole force he turned aside to besiege St. Jean d'Angely, and thus
gave our leaders time to form fresh plans. Strong garrisons were sent to
defend Niort and Angouleme, while the main part of the beaten army
retired to Rochelle.

It was a dismal entry into the town. The citizens came to meet us, the
men sullen and downcast, the women white-faced and weeping. Many were
searching eagerly among the war-worn band for the dear ones they would
never meet again on earth. On that dreadful day scores of women learned
for the first time that they were already widowed, and that