but victory appeared hopeless, and we listened
anxiously for the sound of La Ferte's cannon. Thus far, at least,
Raoul's judgment had proved correct. Ill news came both from right and
left. Our men, suffering fearfully from the hidden musketry fire, made
headway only at a wasteful expense of life. More than one high officer
had fallen at the barricades, and Conde, who seemed to be in several
places at once, beat back each fresh assault.

Everywhere our soldiers were growing dispirited, and even talked of
waiting for help; but Turenne, who had an iron will, would not hear of
defeat. Rising in his stirrups, and looking steadily at his band of
cavaliers, he cried cheerfully, "One more charge, gentlemen!"

"For the King!" answered Raoul, waving his stained sword above his
head, and we all echoed the cry lustily.

Turenne gave the word, and once again we swept like a hurricane through
the street. The rebels awaited the onset, but the shock was too great.
Back they went, steadily at first, then swiftly, and at last in
headlong flight. Conde, brave as a lion--to my thinking no braver man
took part in the fight--endeavoured in vain to rally them; only his
staunchest leaders stayed at his side. Raoul, a horse's length in
front of us, galloped forward, and struck furiously at the rebel chief.
The blow partly missed, but the sword drew blood.

"For the King!" shouted my comrade.

"Down with Mazarin!" responded our opponents defiantly, and surrounding
Conde forced him against his will to retire.

Meanwhile our musketeers, swarming into the houses, maintained an
incessant and destructive fire, The rebels in their turn lost heart,
and even their leader's matchless courage could hardly keep them at
their posts. A cheer on the right announced our success in that
quarter, and presently arose an answering cry from the left. The three
divisions had fought their way to the open space, and unless the
Parisians unbolted the gate the rebel army was doomed. Paris was at
their backs, we were in front, and they could not break through us.

A band of their leaders held the last barricade with heroic courage.
Separated from all their friends, they were in desperate plight; yet
they blenched not. One after another they fell grievously wounded, and
some among them bore the highest names in France. It was a pitiful
sight, yet they refused to surrender, though Turenne, I am certain,
would gladly have spared them. Presently Conde,