and his men were seasoned soldiers.

But Condé gave us little time for reflection. "Forward! Forward!" We
rose in our stirrups, and with a ringing cheer dashed at the foe. Like a
wall of rock they stood, and our front rank went down before them. We
withdrew a space, and once more sprang forward, but with the same
result. The din was terrific; steel clashed against steel; horses
neighed, men groaned in agony, or shouted in triumph.

And presently, above the tumult, we heard Condé's voice ringing high and
clear, "To me, gentlemen! To me!"

He was in the thick of the press, cutting a passage for himself, while
numbers of his bodyguard toiled after him.

"To the Prince!" cried Roger Braund in stentorian tones, "or he is
lost!"

We tore our way like a parcel of madmen, striking right and left in
blind fury, and not pausing to parry a blow. But the enemy surged round
us like waves in a storm. They hammered us in front, in the rear, on
both flanks; we fell apart into groups, each group fighting strenuously
for dear life.

And in the midst of the fearful struggle there rose the ominous cry,
"The Prince is down!"

For an instant both sides stood still, and then Roger Braund, crying,
"To the rescue!" leaped straight at those in front of him. The noble
band of Englishmen followed, the battle flamed up afresh; renewed cries