The two armies lay over against each other, with the river between them,
for some days longer, but it was obvious that nothing further would be
attempted on either side. Mondragon had accomplished the object for
which he had marched from Brabant. He had, spoiled the autumn campaign
of Maurice, and, was, now disposed to return before winter to, his own
quarters. He sent a trumpet accordingly to his antagonist, begging him,
half in jest, to have more consideration for his infirmities than to keep
him out in his old age in such foul weather, but to allow him the
military honour of being last to break up camp. Should Maurice consent
to move away, Mondragon was ready to pledge himself not to pursue him,
and within three days to leave his own entrenchments.

The proposition was not granted, and very soon afterwards the Spaniard,
deciding to retire, crossed the Rhine on the 11th October. Maurice made
a slight attempt at pursuit, sending Count William Lewis with some
cavalry, who succeeded in cutting off a few wagons. The army, however,
returned safely, to be dispersed into various garrisons.

This was Mondragon's last feat of, arms. Less than three months
afterwards, in Antwerp citadel, as the veteran was washing his hands
previously to going to the dinner-table, he sat down and died. Strange
to say, this man--who had spent almost a century on the battlefield, who
had been a soldier in nearly every war that had been waged in any part of
Europe during that most belligerent age, who had come an old man to the
Netherlands before Alva's arrival, and had ever since been constantly and
personally engaged in the vast Flemish tragedy which had now lasted well
nigh thirty years--had never himself lost a drop of blood. His battle-
fields had been on land and water, on ice, in fire, and at the bottom of
the sea, but he had never received a wound. Nay, more; he had been blown