at he
claimed, neither for himself nor for his legion, any superiority over the
rest of the army. He knew not that the Italians were more to be relied
upon than others in the time of danger, but this he did know, that no man
in the world was so devoted as he was to the Prince of Parma. To show
that devotion by waiting with folded arms behind a wall until the Prince
should arrive to extricate his followers, was not in his constitution. He
claimed the right to lead his Italians against the enemy at once--in the
front rank, if others chose to follow; alone, if the rest preferred to
wait till a better leader should arrive.

The words of the Italian colonel sent a thrill through all who heard him.
Next in command under Capizucca was his camp-marshal, an officer who bore
the illustrious name of Piccolomini--father of the Duke Ottavio, of whom
so much was to be heard at a later day throughout the fell scenes of that
portion of the eighty years' tragedy now enacting, which was to be called
the Thirty Years' War of Germany. The camp-marshal warmly seconded the
proposition of his colonel. Mansfeld, pleased with such enthusiasm among
his officers, yielded to their wishes, which were, in truth, his own. Six
companies of the Italian Legion were in his encampment while the
remainder were stationed, far away, upon the bridge, under command of his
son, Count Charles. Early in the morning, before the passage across the
dyke had been closed the veteran condottiere, pricking his ears as he
snuffed the battle from afar, had contrived to send a message to his son.

"Charles, my boy," were his words, "to-day we must either beat them or
burst."

Old Peter Ernest felt that the long-expected, long-deferred assault was
to be made that morning in full force, and that it was necessary for the
royalists, on both bridge and dyke, to hold their own. Piccolomini now
drew up three hundred of his Italians, picked veterans all, and led them
in marching order to Mansfeld. That general at the same moment, received
another small but unexpected reinforcement. A portion of the Spanish
Legion, which had long been that of Pedro Pacchi, lay at the extreme
verge of the Stabroek encampment, several miles away. Aroused by the
distant cannonading, and suspecting what had occurred, Don Juan d'Aquila,
the colonel in command, marched without a moment's delay to Mansfeld's
head-quarters, at the head of all the force he could muster--about two
hundred strong. With him