as brave a leader as could be found in all France.

He glanced round at us; there was a proud smile on his resolute face;
his eyes glowed with fiery ardour.

"Charge, my children!" he cried, "and strike a last blow for St. Cyr!"

He pressed his horse's sides with the spurs, and waving his sword dashed
forward, his battle-cry, "St. Cyr!" ringing out high and clear. It was a
sight to make one weep, and yet feel proud that one's country could
produce such a hero.

Forward we went, and the air was filled with cries of "St Cyr! For the
Admiral! Hurrah! Hurrah!" as we plunged into the midst of the press.

"Forward, my children!" cried St Cyr, as he carved a passage for
himself through the throng; "forward!"

He was a splendid rider and a skilful swordsman, but his enemies closed
round him thickly. Savage blows rained upon him from every side, and at
last, with a "Fight on, my children!" the gallant veteran sank bleeding
to the ground. Montcontour cost France numerous brave men but none
braver than the chivalrous St. Cyr.

His fall, instead of dispiriting his followers, roused them to fury! No
one asked or gave quarter; it was a fight to the death, and when finally
we succeeded in breaking through the royalist horse, half of our number
lay lifeless on the plain. Some there were--St. Cyr's personal
attendants notably--so fired with grief and anger at the death of their
beloved chief that they were for turning back and renewing the combat.