no time to speak.

The retreat in this part of the field had not become general; numbers of
soldiers in tolerably good order were still battling stubbornly, and
presently we reached the remnant of several troops of cavalry.

In front of them was the venerable Count of St. Cyr, his snow-white
beard sweeping to his waist.

"My lord," I said, riding up, "can you tell me where to find Count Louis
of Nassau?"

"Farther on the right, monsieur," he replied courteously; "but you will
find it difficult to reach him. Ah, here they come!" and, glancing
ahead, I perceived a cloud of horsemen preparing to swoop down upon us.

"Pray, my lord," pleaded his chaplain, who was close by, "say something
to encourage your troops. They are faint and weary with fighting, and
the odds against them are terrible."

The stout-hearted warrior turned to his followers. "Brave men need no
words!" he cried; "do as you see me do!" and they greeted his speech
with frantic cheers.

"You will be lucky to meet Count Louis after this!" cried Roger, as I
returned to my men.

The royalists swept forward, threatening to engulf us as the wild sea
swallows a tiny boat, and I must admit that my heart sank at sight of
them. But I was in the company of brave men, and following the flag of