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Both bowed courteously.

"Then," continued the unknown, "it is settled: you will make a furious
sortie on the infantry and cavalry. I trust that your officers will so
conduct it as to defeat your enemies."

"But their vessels?" cried the burgomaster. "The wind is northeast, and
they will be in our city in two hours."

"You have yourselves six old ships and thirty boats at St. Marie; that
is a mile off, is it not? That is your maritime barricade across the
Scheldt."

"Yes, monseigneur, that is so. How do you know all these details?"

Monseigneur smiled.

"I know them, as you see; it is there that lies the fate of the battle."

"Then," said the burgomaster, "we must send aid to our brave seamen."

"On the contrary, you may dispose otherwise of the 400 men who are
there; twenty brave, intelligent, and devoted men will suffice." The
Antwerpians opened their eyes in surprise.

"Will you," continued monseigneur, "destroy the French fleet at the
expense of your six old vessels and thirty boats?"

"Hum!" said the Antwerpians, looking at each other, "our ships are not
so old."

"Well, price them," said the stranger, "and I will pay you their value."

"See," said William softly to him, "the men against whom I have to
contend every day. Were it not for that, I should have conquered long
ago."

"Come, gentlemen," continued the stranger, "name your price, but name it
quickly. I will pay you in bills on yourselves, which I trust you will
find good."

"Monseigneur," said the burgomaster, after a few minutes' deliberation
with the others, "we are merchants, and not soldiers; therefore, you
must pardon some hesitation, for our souls are not in our bodies, but in
our counting-houses. However, there are circumstances in which, for the
general good, we know how to make sacrifices. Dispose, then, of our
ships as you like."

"Ma foi, monseigneur," said William, "you have done wonders. It would
have taken me six months to obtain what you have done in ten minutes."

"This, then, is my plan, gentlemen," said monseigneur. "The French, with
the admiral's galley at their head, will try to force a passage. Make
your line long enough, and from all your boats let the men throw
grappling-irons; and then, having made fast the enemy's ships, set fire
to all your own boats, having previously filled them with combustible
materials, and let your men escape in one reserved for the purpose."

"Oh!" cried William, "I see the whole French fleet burning."

"Yes, the whole; then no more retreat by sea and none by land, for at
the same time you must open the sluices of Malines, Berchem, Lier,
Duffel, and Antwerp. Repulsed by you, pursued by your open dykes,
enveloped on all sides by these waters unexpectedly and rapidly rising,
by this sea, which will have a flow, but no ebb, the French will be
drowned--overwhelmed--destroyed."

The officers uttered a cry of joy.

"There is but one drawback," said the prince.

"What is it, monseigneur?"

"That it would take a day to send our orders to the different towns, and
we have but an hour."

"And an hour is enough."

"But who will instruct the fleet?"

"It is done."

"By whom?"

"By me. If these gentlemen had refused to give it to me, I should have
bought it."

"But Malines, Lier, Duffel?"

"I passed through Malines and Lier, and sent a sure agent to Duffel. At
eleven o'clock the French will be beaten; at one they will be in full
retreat; at two Malines will open its dykes, Lier and Duffel their
sluices, and the whole plain will become a furious ocean, which will
drown houses, fields, woods, and villages, it is true, but at the same
time will destroy the French so utterly, that not one will return to
France."

A silence of admiration and terror followed these words; then all at
once the Flemings burst into applause. William stepped forward, and,
holding out his hand, said: "Then, monseigneur, all is ready on our
side?"

"All; and, stay--I believe on the side of the French also."

And he pointed to an officer who was entering.

"Gentlemen," cried the officer, "we have just heard that the French are
marching toward the city."

"To arms!" cried the burgomaster.

"To arms!" cried all.

"One moment, gentlemen," cried monseigneur; "I have to give one
direction more important than all the rest."

"Speak!" cried all.

"The French will be surprised; it will not be a combat, nor even a
retreat, but a flight. To pursue them you must be lightly armed. No
cuirasses, morbleu! It is your cuirasses, in which you cannot move,
which have made you lose all the battles you have lost. No cuirasses,
gentlemen. We will meet again in the combat. Meanwhile, go to the place
of the Hotel de Ville, where you will find all your men in battle
array."

"Thanks, monseigneur," said William; "you have saved Belgium and
Holland."

"Prince, you overwhelm me."

"Will your highness consent to draw the sword against the French?" asked
the prince.

"I will arrange as to fight against the Huguenots," replied the unknown,
with a smile which his more somber companion might have envied.




CHAPTER LXV.

FRENCH AND FLEMINGS.


At the moment when the members of the council left the Hotel de Ville,
the officers went to put themselves at the head of their troops, and
execute the orders they had received. At the same time the artillery
sounded. This artillery surprised the French in their nocturnal march,
by which they had hoped to surprise the town; but instead of stopping
their advance, it only hastened it. If they could not take the city by
surprise, they might, as we have seen the king of Navarre do at Cahors,
fill up the moats with fascines and burst open the gates with petards.

The cannon from the ramparts continued to fire, but in the darkness took
scarcely any effect, and after having replied to the cries of their
adversaries, the French advanced silently toward the ramparts with that
fiery intrepidity which they always show in attack.

But all at once, doors and posterns opened, and from all sides poured
out armed men, if not with the fierce impetuosity of the French, with a
firmness which rendered them massive as a rolling wall.

It was the Flemings, who advanced in close ranks, and compact masses,
above which the cannon continued to thunder, although with more noise
than effect. Then the combat began hand to hand, foot to foot, sword to
sword, and the flash of pistols lighted up faces red with blood.

But not a cry--not a murmur--not a complaint was heard, and the Flemings
and French fought with equal rage. The Flemings were furious at having
to fight, for fighting was neither their profession nor their pleasure;
and the French were furious at being attacked when they meant to have
taken the initiative.

While the combat was raging furiously, explosions were heard near St.
Marie, and a light rose over the city, like a crest of flames. It was
Joyeuse attacking and trying to force the barrier across the Scheldt,
and who would soon penetrate into the city, at least, so the French
hoped.

But it was not so; Joyeuse had weighed anchor and sailed, and was making
rapid progress, favored by the west wind. All was ready for action; the
sailors, armed with their boarding cutlasses, were eager for the combat;
the gunners stood ready with lighted matches; while some picked men,
hatchet in hand, stood ready to jump on the hostile ships and destroy
the chains and cords.

The seven ships advanced in silence, disposed in the form of a wedge, of
which the admiral's galley formed the point. Joyeuse himself had taken
his first lieutenant's place, and was leaning over the bowsprit, trying
to pierce the fogs of the river and the darkness of the night. Soon,
through this double obscurity, he saw the pier extending itself darkly
across the stream; it appeared deserted, but, in that land of ambushes,
there seemed something terrifying in this desertion.

However, they continued to advance, and soon were within sight of the
barrier, scarcely ten cable lengths off; they approached nearer and
nearer, and yet not a single "qui vive!" struck on their ears.

The sailors only saw in this silence a carelessness which rejoiced them;
but their young admiral, more far-seeing, feared some ruse. At last the
prow of the admiral's ship touched the two ships which formed the center
of the barrier, and made the whole line, which was fastened together by
chains, tremble.

Suddenly, as the bearers of the hatchets received the order to board and
cut the chains, a crowd of grappling irons, thrown by invisible hands,
seized hold of the French vessels. The Flemings had forestalled the
intended movement of the French. Joyeuse believed that his enemies were
offering him a mortal combat, and he accepted it with alacrity. He also
threw grappling irons, and the two lines of ships were firmly bound
together. Then, seizing a hatchet, he was the first to jump on a ship,
crying, "Board them! board them!" All his crew followed him, officers
and men, uttering the same cry; but no cry replied to them, no force
opposed their advance.

Only they saw three boats full of men gliding silently over the water,
like three sea-birds.

The assailants rested motionless on the ships which they had conquered
without a struggle.

All at once Joyeuse heard under his feet a crackling sound, and a smell
of sulphur filled the air. A thought crossed his mind, and he ran and
opened a hatchway; the vessel was burning. A cry of, "To our ships!"
sounded through all the line. Each climbed back again more quickly than
he had come in; but Joyeuse, this time, was the last. Just as he reached
his galley, the flames burst out over the whole bridge of boats, like
twenty volcanoes, of which each ship or boat was the crater; the order
was instantly given to cut the ropes and break the chains and
grappling-irons, and the sailors worked with the rapidity of men who
knew that their safety depended on their exertions. But the work was
immense; perhaps they might have detached those thrown by the enemy on
their ships, but they had also to detach those which they themselves had
thrown.

All at once twenty explosions were heard, and each of the French ships
trembled to its center. It was the cannons that defended the port, and
which, fully charged and then abandoned by the Antwerpians, exploded as
the fire gained on them, breaking everything within their reach.

The flames mounted like gigantic serpents along the masts, rolled
themselves round the yards, then, with their forked tongues, came to
lick the sides of the French vessels.

Joyeuse, with his magnificent armor covered with gold, giving calmly,
and in an imperious voice, his orders in the midst of the flames, looked
like a fabulous salamander covered with scales, and at every movement
threw off a shower of sparks. But the explosions became louder than
ever; the gun-room had taken fire, and the vessels were flying in
pieces.

Joyeuse had done his best to free himself, but in vain; the flames had
reached the French ships, and showers of fire fell about him. The
Flemish barrier was broken, and the French burning ships drifted to the
shore. Joyeuse saw that he could not save his ships, and he gave orders
to lower the boats, and land on the left bank. This was quickly done,
and all the sailors were embarked to a man before Joyeuse quitted his
galley. His sang-froid kept every one in order, and each man landed with
a sword or an ax in his hand. Before he had reached the shore, the fire
reached the magazine of his ship, which blew up, lighting the whole
horizon.

Meanwhile, the artillery from the ramparts had ceased, not that the
combat had abated, but that it was so close it was impossible to fire on
enemies without firing on friends also.

The Calvinist cavalry had charged, and done wonders. Before the swords
of its cavaliers a pathway opened, but the wounded Flemings pierced the
horses with their large cutlasses, and in spite of this brilliant
charge, a little confusion showed itself in the French columns, and they
only kept their ground instead of advancing, while from the gates of the
city new troops continually poured out. All at once, almost under the
walls of the city, a cry of "Anjou! France!" was heard behind the mass
of the Antwerpians. This was Joyeuse and his 1,500 sailors, armed with
hatchets and cutlasses. They had to revenge their fleet in flames and
two hundred of their companions burned or drowned.

No one could manage his long sword better than Joyeuse: every blow cut
open a head, every thrust took effect. The group of Flemings on which he
fell were destroyed like a field of corn by a legion of locusts.
Delighted with their first success, they continued to push on; but the
Calvinist cavalry, surrounded by troops, began to lose ground. M. de St.
Aignan's infantry, however, kept their place.

The prince had seen the burning of the fleet, and heard the reports of
the cannon and the explosions, without suspecting anything but a fierce
combat, which must terminate in victory for Joyeuse; for how could a few
Flemish ships fight against the French fleet? He expected, then, every
minute a diversion on the part of Joyeuse, when the news was brought to
him that the fleet was destroyed, and Joyeuse and his men fighting in
the midst of the Flemings. He now began to feel very anxious, the fleet
being the means of retreat, and consequently the safety of the army. He
sent orders to the Calvinist cavalry to try a fresh charge, and men and
horses, almost exhausted, rallied to attack the Antwerpians afresh. The
voice of Joyeuse was heard in the midst of the melee crying, "Hold firm,
M. de St. Aignan. France! France!" and, like a reaper cutting a field of
corn, his sword flew round, and cut down its harvest of men; the
delicate favorite--the Sybarite--seemed to have put on with his cuirass
the strength of a Hercules; and the infantry, hearing his voice above
all the noise, and seeing his sword flashing, took fresh courage, and,
like the cavalry, made a new effort, and returned to the combat.

But now the person that had been called monseigneur came out of the city
on a beautiful black horse. He wore black armor, and was followed by
three hundred well-mounted cavaliers, whom the Prince of Orange had
placed at his disposal.

By a parallel gate came out William himself, with a picked body of
infantry who had not yet appeared.

Monseigneur hastened where he was most wanted, that is to say, where
Joyeuse was fighting with his sailors.

The Flemings recognized him, and opened their ranks, crying, joyfully,
"Monseigneur! monseigneur!" Joyeuse and his men saw the movement, heard
the cries, and all at once found themselves opposed to a new troop.
Joyeuse pushed his horse toward the black knight, and their swords met.
Joyeuse was confident in his armor and his science, but all his thrusts
were skillfully parried, and one of those of his adversary touched him,
and in spite of his armor, drew some drops of blood from his shoulder.

"Ah!" cried the young admiral, "this man is a Frenchman, and what is
more, he has studied fencing under the same master as I have."

At these words the unknown turned away, and tried to find a new
antagonist.

"If you are French," cried Joyeuse, "you are a traitor, for you fight
against your king, your country, and your flag."

The unknown only replied by attacking Joyeuse with fresh fury; but now
Joyeuse was on his guard, and knew with what a skillful swordsman he had
to deal. He parried two or three thrusts with as much skill as fury, and
it was now the stranger who made a step back.

"See!" cried Joyeuse, "what one can do fighting for one's country! A
pure heart and a loyal arm suffice to defend a head without a helmet, a
face without a vizor;" and he threw his helmet far from him, displaying
his noble and beautiful head, with eyes sparkling with pride, youth and
anger.

His antagonist forebore answer, uttered a cry, and struck at his bare
head.

"Ah!" cried Joyeuse, parrying the blow, "I said you were a traitor, and
as a traitor you shall die. I will kill you, and carry off this helmet
which hides and defends you, and hang you to the first tree that I see."

[Illustration: "I SAID YOU WERE A TRAITOR, AND AS A TRAITOR YOU SHALL
DIE."]

But at this moment a cavalier cried:

"Monseigneur, no more skirmishing; your presence is wanted over there."

Glancing toward the point indicated, the unknown saw the Flemings giving
way before the Calvinist cavalry.

"Yes," cried he, "those are the men I wanted."

At this moment so many cavaliers pressed on the sailors, that they made
their first step in retreat.

The black cavalier profited by this movement to disappear in the melee.

A quarter of an hour after the French began to give way. M. de St.
Aignan tried to retreat in good order, but a last troop of 2,000
infantry and 500 horse came out fresh from the city, and fell on this
harassed and already retreating army. It was the old band of the Prince
of Orange, which had fought in turns against the Duc d'Alva, Don John,
Requesens, and Alexander Farnese. In spite of the coolness of the chiefs
and the bravery of many, a frightful rout commenced.

At this moment the unknown fell again on the fugitives, and once more
met Joyeuse with his now diminished band. The young admiral was mounted
on his third horse, 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, from two to six in the morning, restored to the
infantry the strength to continue their retreat; but provisions were
wanting.

As for the horses, they seemed more fatigued than the men, and could
scarcely move, for they had eaten nothing since the day before.

The fugitives hoped to gain Brussels, where the duke had many partisans,
although they were not free from anxiety as to their reception. At
Brussels, which was about eight leagues off, they would find food for
the famishing troops, and a place of security from whence to recommence
the campaign at a more favorable time. M. d'Anjou breakfasted in a
peasant's hut, between Heboken and Heckhout. It was empty, but a fire
still burned in the grate.

The soldiers and officers wished to imitate their chief, and spread
themselves about the village, but found with a surprise mingled with
terror that every house was deserted and empty.

M. de St. Aignan, who had aided them in their search, now called to the
officers:

"March on, gentlemen."

"But we are tired and dying with hunger, colonel."

"Yes, but you are alive; and if you remain here another hour you will be
dead. Perhaps it is already too late."

M. de St. Aignan knew nothing; but he suspected some great danger. They
went on; but two or three thousand men straggled from the main body, or,
worn out with fatigue, lay down on the grass, or at the foot of a tree,
wearied, desolate, and despairing. Scarcely three thousand able men
remained to the Duc d'Anjou.




CHAPTER LXVI.

THE TRAVELERS.


While these disasters, the forerunners of a still greater one, were
taking place, two travelers, mounted on excellent horses, left Brussels
on a fine night, and rode toward Mechlin. They rode side by side,
without any apparent arms but a large Flemish knife, of which the handle
appeared in the belt of one of them. They rode on, each occupied with
thoughts perhaps the same, without speaking a word. They looked like
those commercial travelers who at that time carried on an extensive
trade between France and Flanders. Whoever had met them trotting so
peaceably along the road would have taken them for honest men, anxious
to find a bed after their day's work. However, it was only necessary to
overhear a few sentences of their conversation to lose any such opinion
suggested by their appearance. They were about half a league from
Brussels, when the tallest of them said:

"Madame, you were quite right to set off to-night; we shall gain seven
leagues by it, and shall probably arrive at Mechlin by the time the
result of the attack on Antwerp is known. In two days of short marches,
and you must take easy stages, we shall reach Antwerp."

The person who was called madame, in spite of her male costume, replied
in a voice calm, grave, and sweet:

"My friend, believe me, God will tire of protecting this wicked prince,
and will strike him cruelly; let us hasten to put our projects into
execution, for I am not one of those who believe in fatality, and I
think that men have perfect freedom in will and deed. If we leave his
punishment to God, and do not act ourselves, it was not worth while
living so unhappily until now."

At this moment a blast of north wind, cold and biting, swept across the
plain.

"You shiver, madame," said the other traveler; "take your cloak."

"No, thank you, Remy; I no longer feel pain of body or mind."

Remy rode on silently, only now and then stopping and looking back.

"You see no one behind us?" asked she, after one of these halts.

"No one, madame."

"That cavalier whom we met at Valenciennes, and who inquired about us,
after looking at us so curiously?"

"He is not here, madame."

"But I fancied I saw him again near Mons."

"And I, madame, am sure I saw him just before we entered Brussels."

"Brussels?"

"Yes; but he must have stopped there."

"Remy," said Diana, drawing near him, as if even on that lonely road she
feared to be overheard, "did he not seem to you like (in figure, at
least, for I did not see his face) that unhappy young man?"

"Oh! no, madame, not at all; and besides, how could he have guessed that
we had left Paris, and were traveling along this road?"

"But he found us out when we changed our house in Paris."

"No, madame, I am sure he did not follow us; and, indeed, I believe he
had resolved on a desperate course as regards himself."

"Alas! Remy, every one has his own share of suffering. I trust God will
console this poor youth."

Remy replied with a sigh, and they went on with no other sound than
that of their horses' feet on the hard road. Two hours passed thus. Just
as they were about to enter Vilvoide, Remy turned his head, for he heard
the sound of horses' feet behind them. He stopped and listened, but
could see nothing. His eyes uselessly tried to pierce through the
darkness of the night, and as he no longer heard any sounds, they rode
on and entered the town.

"Madame," said he, "if you will take my advice, you will stay here;
daylight will soon appear, the horses are tired, and you yourself need
repose."

"Remy, you are anxious about something."

"Yes, about your health, madame. Believe me, a woman cannot support so
much fatigue; I can scarcely do so myself."

"As you please, Remy."

"Well, then, enter that narrow street. I see a light at the end of it,
which must proceed from an inn. Be quick, I beg you."