r to his heart."

His disheartened Spaniards and Italians--roused as by a magic
trumpet--eagerly demanded to be led against the rebels. And now from each
end of the dyke, the royalists were advancing toward the central position
occupied by the patriots. While Capizucca and Aquila were occupied at
Fort Victory, Parma was steadily cutting his way from Holy Cross to Saint
George. On foot, armed with sword and shield, and in coat of mail, and
marching at the head of his men along the dyke, surrounded by Bevilacqua,
Bentivoglio, Manriquez, Sforza, and other officers of historic name and
distinguished courage, now upon the summit of the causeway, now on its
shelving banks, now breast-high in the waters, through which lay the
perilous path, contending at every inch with the scattered bands of the
patriots, who slowly retired to their entrenched camp, and with the
Antwerp and Zeeland vessels, whose balls tore through the royalist ranks,
the General at last reached Saint George. On the preservation of that
post depended the whole fortune of the day, for Parma had already
received the welcome intelligence that the Palisade--now Fort
Victory--had been regained. He instantly ordered an outer breast-work of
wool-sacks and sand-bags to be thrown up in front of Saint George, and
planted a battery to play point-blank at the enemy's entrenchments. Here
the final issue was to be made.

The patriots and Spaniards were thus all enclosed in the mile-long space
between St. George and the Palisade. Upon that narrow strip of earth,
scarce six paces in width, more than five thousand men met in mortal
combat--a narrow arena for so many gladiators, hemmed in on both sides by
the sea. The patriots had, with solemn ceremony, before starting upon
their enterprise, vowed to destroy the dyke and relieve Antwerp, or to
perish in the attempt. They were true to their vow. Not the ancient
Batavians or Nervii had ever manifested more tenacity against the Roman
legions than did their descendants against the far-famed Spanish infantry
upon this fatal day. The fight on the Kowenstyn was to be long remembered
in the military annals of Spain and Holland. Never, since the curtain
first rose upon the great Netherland tragedy, had there been a fiercer
encounter. Flinching was impossible. There was scant room for the play of
pike and dagger, and, close packed as were the combatants, the dead could
hardly fall to the ground. It was a mile-long series of separate mor