fearlessly in the wildest charge--she came to prove her unswerving
loyalty.

"I offer you my son," said this noble lady--may her name ever be held
in reverence--"who burns with a bold ardour to avenge the death of the
Prince we all regret. Behold also Condé's son, now become my own child.
He succeeds to his father's name and glory. Heaven grant that they may
both show themselves worthy of their ancestors!"

While she spoke, not another sound broke the silence in all that vast
assembly; but when the echo of the last word had died away, such a shout
arose that few have ever heard its like. The whole army cheered and
cheered again with one voice; hundreds of swords flashed in the air; men
went wild with enthusiasm as they cried, "Long live Joan of Albret! long
live the Queen of Navarre!"

When at length silence was restored there rode to the front that gallant
youth, Henry of Beam, whose winning manners had already charmed us at
Rochelle. I have seen him since with all the world at his feet, and
crowned with victory; but after his most glorious triumph he did not
look more noble than on that memorable day at Niort. He was, as I have
said, a splendid horseman, and he managed his fiery charger with
exquisite grace and ease. His eyes, usually so sweet, were bright and
burning; the hot blood reddened his clear brown skin.

"Soldiers!" he exclaimed--and I would you could have heard the music of
his voice--"your cause is mine. I swear to defend our religion, and to
persevere until death or victory has restored us the liberty for which
we fight."