emselves as stoutly in the fight as if they had
been in training for it of late, instead of being enfeebled by scanty
subsistence and excessive toil. After a severe struggle, which lasted
nearly an hour, the Spaniards were driven back at all points. Not a
breach was won; and, broken and dispirited, the assailants were
compelled to retire on their former position.

After this mortifying repulse, the duke did not give them a long time to
breathe, before he again renewed the assault. This time he directed the
main attack against a tower where the resistance had been weakest. In
fact, Coligni had there placed the troops on whom he had least reliance,
trusting to the greater strength of the works. But a strong heart is
worth all the defences in the world. After a sharp but short struggle,
the assailants succeeded in carrying the tower. The faint-hearted troops
gave way; and the Spaniards, throwing themselves on the rampart,
remained masters of one of the breaches. A footing once gained, the
assailants poured impetuously into the opening, Spaniards, Germans, and
English streaming like a torrent along the ramparts, and attacking the
defenders on their flank. Coligni, meanwhile, and his brother Dandelot,
had rushed, with a few followers, to the spot, in the hope, if possible,
to arrest the impending ruin. But they were badly supported. Overwhelmed
by numbers, they were trodden down, disarmed, and made prisoners. Still
the garrison, at the remaining breaches, continued to make a desperate
stand. But, with one corps pressing them on flank, and another in front,
they were speedily cut to pieces, or disabled and taken. In half an
hour resistance had ceased along the ramparts. The town was in
possession of the Spaniards.[223]

A scene of riot and wild uproar followed, such as made the late conflict
seem tame in comparison. The victorious troops spread over the town in
quest of plunder, perpetrating those deeds of ruthless violence, usual,
even in this enlightened age, in a city taken by storm. The wretched
inhabitants fled before them; the old and the helpless, the women and
children, taking refuge in garrets, cellars, and any other corner where
they could hide themselves from their pursuers. Nothing was to be heard
but the groans of the wounded and the dying, the cries of women and
children,--"so pitiful," says one present, "that they would grieve any
Christian heart,"[224]--mingled, with the shouts of the victors, who,
intoxicate