rb you. You are not much hurt?"

"No, but rather ashamed! We have begun badly."

"And shall therefore make a better ending," said he brightly. "Cheer up,
Edmond, there is no disgrace in being beaten by twice our number. Jarnac
is not the only field of battle in France."

CHAPTER IX

A Glorious Victory

The steady courage and resolute will of our great leader raised the
spirits of every soldier under his command; the disaster at Jarnac
became more and more a dream; the retreat to Niort was conducted without
the least disorder or confusion. Every one trusted Coligny, and felt
that under his rule all would go well.

And, as far as human skill and foresight could prevail, the Admiral
deserved our confidence. All through the day, and far into the night, he
toiled, and never grew weary; at one time inspecting his troops, at
another strengthening his defences; now endeavouring to form some useful
alliance, again writing cheerful letters and putting heart into the more
timid of our friends.

We had another leader, too, who, though she did not lead us into battle
was worth many a troop of horse to the Cause. I shall never forget the
day when Joan of Albret, the great-hearted Queen of Navarre, came riding
into our camp at Niort, bringing her son, Henry of Beam, and her nephew
Henry, the son of the murdered Conde. True and steadfast in the hour of
our defeat--more steadfast even than some of those who would ride
fearlessly in the wildest charge--she came to prove her unswerving
loyalty.

"I offer you my son," said this noble lady--may her name ever be held
in reverence--"who burns with a bold ardour to avenge the death of the
Prince we all regret. Behold also Conde's son, now become my own child.
He succeeds to his father's name and glory. Heaven grant that they may
both show themselves worthy of their ancestors!"

While she spoke, not another sound broke the silence in all that vast
assembly; but when the echo of the last word had died away, such a shout
arose that few have ever heard its like. The whole army cheered and
cheered again with one voice; hundreds of swords flashed in the air; men
went wild with enthusiasm as they cried, "Long live Joan of Albret! long
live the Queen of Navarre!"

When at length silence was restored there rode to the front that gallant
youth, Henry of Beam, whose winning manners had already charmed us at
Rochelle. I have seen him since with all the world at his feet, and
crowned w