avily,
with frost and drifting snow, upon the worn and weary hosts.

In three months ten thousand Protestants had perished. At Orleans two
hundred Protestants were thrown into prison. The populace set the
prison on fire, and they were all consumed.

At length the Catholic armies, having become far more numerous than
the Protestant, ventured upon a general engagement. They met upon the
field of Jarnac. The battle was conducted by the Reformers with a
degree of fearlessness bordering on desperation. The Prince of Conde
plunged into the thickest ranks of the enemy with his unfurled banner
bearing the motto, "Danger is sweet for Christ and my country." Just
as he commenced his desperate charge, a kick from a wounded horse
fractured his leg so severely that the fragments of the bone protruded
through his boot. Pointing to the mangled and helpless limb, he said
to those around him, "Remember the state in which Louis of Bourbon
enters the fight for Christ and his country." Immediately sounding the
charge, like a whirlwind his little band plunged into the midst of
their foes. For a moment the shock was irresistible, and the assailed
fell like grass before the scythe of the mower. Soon, however, the
undaunted band was entirely surrounded by their powerful adversaries.
The Prince of Conde, with but about two hundred and fifty men, with
indomitable determination sustained himself against the serried ranks
of five thousand men closing up around him on every side. This was the
last earthly conflict of the Prince of Conde. With his leg broken and
his arm nearly severed from his body, his horse fell dead beneath him,
and the prince, deluged with blood, was precipitated into the dust
under the trampling hoofs of wounded and frantic chargers. His men
still fought with desperation around their wounded chieftain. Of
twenty-five nephews who accompanied him, fifteen were slain by his
side. Soon all his defenders were cut down or dispersed. The wounded
prince, an invaluable prize, was taken prisoner. Montesquieu, captain
of the guards of the Duke of Anjou, came driving up, and as he saw
the prisoner attracting much attention, besmeared with blood and dirt,

"Whom have we here?" he inquired.

"The Prince of Conde," was the exultant reply.

"Kill him! kill him!" exclaimed the captain, and he discharged a
pistol at his head.

The ball passed through his brain, and the prince fell lifeless upon
the ground. The corpse was left where it fel