"With the Admiral. Coligny is badly wounded. We have lost the battle."

"There is time to gain the victory yet!"

"You do not understand. The army is gone; it is a mere mob, utterly
helpless; we are the only troops left. The royalists are slaying at
their pleasure."

"In that case," said he gravely, "we have serious work before us. Who
was the noble old man killed in the last charge?"

"The Count of St. Cyr, one of the bravest gentlemen in the Huguenot
army. It will grieve the Admiral sorely to hear of his death."

"He was a splendid soldier. Ah, the bugles are sounding. Edmond, my
friend, I fear the worst of the day is still to come."

My English friend was right. What had gone before was the play of
children compared with what followed. We had the whole force of Anjou's
army opposed to us. Hour after hour we retreated, fighting every step of
the way. Of the eighteen thousand Huguenots who had marched out to
battle it seemed as if we alone remained. Again and again the royalists
bore down in overwhelming numbers; their heavy guns ploughed lanes
through our ranks; the arquebusiers pelted us with bullets unceasingly;
the horsemen charged with desperate fury.

But in spite of everything we held together; for if we once gave way the
doom of our beloved general was sealed.