How generous are men in success!--the
Prince of Orleans was charmed with the conduct of his National Guards,
and thought his victory secure. He despatched a courier to Paris with
the brief words, "We met the enemy before Tours. The National Guard has
done its duty. The troops of the pretender are routed. Vive le Roi!"
The note, you may be sure, appeared in the Journal des Debats, and the
editor, who only that morning had called Henri V. "a great prince,
an august exile," denominated him instantly a murderer, slave, thief,
cut-throat, pickpocket, and burglar.
CHAPTER VI.
THE ENGLISH UNDER JENKINS.
But the Prince had not calculated that there was a line of British
infantry behind the routed Irish Brigade. Borne on with the hurry of
the melee, flushed with triumph, puffing and blowing with running, and
forgetting, in the intoxication of victory, the trifling bayonet-pricks
which had impelled them to the charge, the conquering National Guardsmen
found themselves suddenly in presence of Jenkins's Foot.
They halted all in a huddle, like a flock of sheep.
"UP, FOOT, AND AT THEM!" were the memorable words of the Duke Jenkins,
as, waving his baton, he pointed towards the enemy, and with a
tremendous shout the stalwart sons of England rushed on!--Down went
plume and cocked-hat, down went corporal and captain, down went grocer
and tailor, under the long staves of the indomitable English Footmen.
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