Gathering
his last warriors round about him, Nemours determined to make a last
desperate effort. 'Twas vain: the ranks met; the next moment the
truncheon of the Prince of Orleans was dashed from his hand by the
irresistible mace of the Duke Jenkins; his horse's shins were broken by
the same weapon. Screaming with agony the animal fell. Jenkins's hand
was at the Duke's collar in a moment, and had he not gasped out, "Je me
rends!" he would have been throttled in that dreadful grasp!
Three hundred and forty-two standards, seventy-nine regiments, their
baggage, ammunition, and treasure-chests, fell into the hands of the
victorious Duke. He had avenged the honor of Old England; and himself
presenting the sword of the conquered Nemours to Prince Henri, who now
came up, the Prince bursting into tears, fell on his neck and said,
"Duke, I owe my crown to my patron saint and you." It was indeed a
glorious victory: but what will not British valor attain?
The Duke of Nemours, having despatched a brief note to Paris, saying,
"Sire, all is lost except honor!" was sent off in confinement; and in
spite of the entreaties of his captor, was hardly treated with decent
politeness. The priests and the noble regiments who rode back when the
affair was over, were for having the Prince shot at once, and murmured
loudly against "cet Anglais brutal" who interposed in behalf of the
prisoner.
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