Down the hill they came in beautiful order, a troop of Italian cavalry,
their helmets gleaming, their swords flashing in the sunlight.

"De Pilles is lost!" muttered a man behind me.

"No, no!" cried Felix; "he will beat them off. See, he is forming up his
men. Ah, bravo! bravo! Look, there isn't a coward among them!"

With a rush, the Italians swept down on the guns. They were brave men
and seasoned fighters, but they came to grief that day. Though their
animals floundered in the soft soil they struggled on valiantly; they
reached the guns, they wheeled and circled, they struck fierce blows
with their glittering blades, but, wherever they rode, there they found
a grim and sturdy opponent.

Back they went for a breathing-space, and then, with a magnificent
charge, once more flung themselves on the handful of gunners. My heart
stood still when, for a moment, our gallant few disappeared as if
overwhelmed by the waves of a human sea.

A triumphant shout from Felix roused me. The waves had rolled back,
broken and shattered, and we raised cheer after cheer as the baffled
horsemen slowly climbed the hill. De Pilles had saved his guns, and in
Monseigneur's Italian troop there were more than a score of empty
saddles. It was a good beginning for us.

The battle now became general. The guns, dragged from the marsh on to
firm ground, opened fire against the breastworks, the infantry marched
steadily forward, two troops of horse worked round to the right, seeking