Jenkins, his gigantic form leaning on his staff, and surveying the havoc of the field, was instantly aware of the enemy’s manoeuvre.  His people were employed rifling the pockets of the National Guard, and had made a tolerable booty, when the great Duke, taking a bell out of his pocket, (it was used for signals in his battalion in place of fife or bugle,) speedily called his scattered warriors together.  “Take the muskets of the Nationals,” said he.  They did so.  “Form in square, and prepare to receive cavalry!” By the time Concombre’s regiment arrived, he found a square of bristling bayonets with Britons behind them!

The Colonel did not care to attempt to break that tremendous body.  “Halt!” said he to his men.

“Fire!” screamed Jenkins, with eagle swiftness; but the guns of the National Guard not being loaded, did not in consequence go off.  The hussars gave a jeer of derision, but nevertheless did not return to the attack, and seeing some of the Legitimist cavalry at hand, prepared to charge upon them.

The fate of those carpet warriors was soon decided.  The Millefleur regiment broke before Concombre’s hussars instantaneously; the Eau-de-Rose dragoons stuck spurs into their blood horses, and galloped far out of reach of the opposing cavalry; the Eau-de-Cologne lancers fainted to a man, and the regiment of Concombre, pursuing its course, had actually reached the Prince and his aides-de-camp, when the clergymen coming up formed gallantly round the oriflamme, and the bassoons and serpents braying again, set up such a shout of canticles, and anathemas, and excommunications, that the horses of Concombre’s dragoons in turn took fright, and those warriors in their turn broke and fled.  As soon as they turned, the Vendean riflemen fired amongst them and finished them:  the gallant Concombre fell; the intrepid though diminutive Cornichon, his major, was cut down; Cardon was wounded a la moelle, and the wife of the fiery Navet was that day a widow.  Peace to the souls of the brave!  In defeat or in victory, where can the soldier find a more fitting resting-place than the glorious field of carnage?  Only a few disorderly and dispirited riders of Concombre’s regiment reached Tours at night.  They had left it but the day before, a thousand disciplined and high-spirited men!

Knowing how irresistible a weapon is the bayonet in British hands, the intrepid Jenkins determined to carry on his advantage, and charged the Saugrenue light infantry (now before him) with cold steel.  The Frenchmen delivered a volley, of which a shot took effect in Jenkins’s cockade, but did not abide the crossing of the weapons.  “A Frenchman dies, but never surrenders,” said Saugrenue, yielding up his sword, and his whole regiment were stabbed, trampled down, or made prisoners.  The blood of the Englishmen rose in the hot encounter.  Their curses were horrible; their courage tremendous.  “On! on!” hoarsely screamed they; and a