solid Frisian bulwark of the
republic--but there were certain points nearer the line where Upper and
Nether Germany almost blend into one, which yet acknowledged the name of
the king. The city of Groenlo, or Grol, not a place of much interest or
importance in itself, but close to the frontier, and to that destined
land of debate, the duchies of Cleves, Juliers, and Berg, still retained
its Spanish garrison. On the 14th July Prince Maurice of Nassau came
before the city with six thousand infantry, some companies of cavalry,
and sixteen pieces of artillery. He made his approaches in form, and
after a week's operations he fired three volleys, according to his
custom, and summoned the place to capitulate. Governor Jan van Stirum
replied stoutly that he would hold the place for God and the king to the
last drop of his blood. Meantime there was hope of help from the outside.

Maurice was a vigorous young commander, but there was a man to be dealt
with who had been called the "good old Mondragon" when the prince was in
his cradle; and who still governed the citadel of Antwerp, and was still
ready for an active campaign.

Christopher Mondragon was now ninety-two years old. Not often in the
world's history has a man of that age been capable of personal,
participation in the joys of the battlefield, whatever natural reluctance
veterans are apt to manifest at relinquishing high military control.

But Mondragon looked not with envy but with admiration on the growing
fame of the Nassau chieftain, and was disposed, before he himself left
the stage, to match himself with the young champion.

So soon as he heard of the intended demonstration of Maurice against
Grol, the ancient governor of Antwerp collected a little army by throwing
together all the troops that could be spared from the various garrisons
within his command. With two Spanish regiments, two thousand Swiss, the
Walloon troops of De Grisons, and the Irish regiment of Stanley--in all
seven thousand foot and thirteen hundred horse--Mondragon marched
straight across Brabant and Gelderland to the Rhine. At Kaiserworth he
reviewed his forces, and announced his intention of immediately crossing
the river. There was a murmur of disapprobation among officers and men at
what they considered the foolhardy scheme of mad old Mondragon. But the
general had not campaigned a generation before, at the age of sixty-nine,
in the bottom of the sea, and waded chin-deep for six hours long of