At this moment the unknown fell again on the fugitives, and once more met Joyeuse with his now diminished band.  The young admiral was mounted on his third horse, two having been killed under him; his sword was broken, and he had taken from a sailor one of their heavy hatchets, which he whirled round his head with the greatest apparent ease.  From time to time he turned and faced his enemy, like the wild boar who cannot make up his mind to fly, and turns desperately on his hunter.  The Flemings, who by monseigneur’s advice had fought without cuirasses, were active in the pursuit, and gave no rest to the Angevin army.  Something like remorse seized the unknown at the sight of this disaster.

“Enough, gentlemen,” cried he, in French, “to-night they are driven from Antwerp, and in a week will be driven from Flanders; ask no more of the God of battles.”

“Ah! he is French,” cried Joyeuse; “I guessed it, traitor.  Ah! be cursed, and may you die the death of a traitor.”

This furious imprecation seemed to disconcert the unknown more than a thousand swords raised against him; he turned, and conqueror as he was, fled as rapidly as the conquered.  But this retreat of a single man changed nothing in the state of affairs.  Fear is contagious, it seized the entire army, and the soldiers began to fly like madmen.  The horses went fast, in spite of fatigue, for they also felt the influence of fear; the men dispersed to seek a shelter, and in some hours the army, as an army, existed no longer.  This was the time when the dykes were to be opened.  From Lier to Termonde, from Haesdouk to Malines—­each little river, swollen by its tributaries—­each canal overflowed, and spread over the flat country its contingent of furious water.

Thus, when the fugitive French began to stop, having tired out the Antwerpians, whom they had seen return to the town, followed by the soldiers of the Prince of Orange—­when those who had escaped from the carnage of the night believed themselves saved, and stopped to breathe for an instant, some with a prayer, and others with a curse, then a new enemy, blind and pitiless, was preparing for them.  Joyeuse had commanded his sailors, now reduced to eight hundred, to make a halt; they were the only persons who had preserved some order, the Comte de St. Aignan having vainly tried to rally his foot soldiers.

The Duc d’Anjou, at the head of the fugitives, mounted on an excellent horse, and accompanied by a single servant, pushed forward without appearing to think of anything.

“He has no heart,” cried some.

“His sang-froid is magnificent,” said others.

Some hours of repose, from two to six in the morning, restored to the infantry the strength to continue their retreat; but provisions were wanting.

As for the horses, they seemed more fatigued than the men, and could scarcely move, for they had eaten nothing since the day before.

The fugitives hoped to gain Brussels, where the duke had many partisans, although they were not free from anxiety as to their reception.  At Brussels, which was about eight leagues off, they would find food for the famishing troops, and a place of security from whence to recommence the campaign at a more favorable time.  M. d’Anjou breakfasted in a peasant’s hut, between Heboken and Heckhout.  It was empty, but a fire still burned in the grate.