The King reached the city, on the night of Wednesday, the 24th of September, 1645, Sir Marmaduke Langdale having in the meantime crossed the river at Holt Bridge, and drawn up his men on Rowton Heath, some two miles distant. On the following morning Poyntz came upon the scene, when he was attacked by Langdale and repulsed with considerable loss, but a party of Brereton's men, headed by Colonel Jones and Lowthian, hastened to their assistance, when Langdale was in turn overpowered and compelled to seek shelter beneath the city walls, where the Royal Guards, commanded by the young Earl of Lichfield and the Lords Gerard and Lindsey, were ready to support them. The contest now became fierce and general. From the leads on the Phoenix Tower on Chester walls the ill-fated Charles watched the fluctuating progress of this last effort for the maintenance of the Royal power; amid the broken surges of the battle he saw his own battalions alternately retreating and rallying until at length, overpowered by numbers, they were compelled to retreat, and he saw, too, his gallant kinsman, Bernard Stuart, Earl of Lichfield--the third brother of that illustrious family who had sacrificed their lives in the cause--with many a gentleman besides fall dead at his feet, and all that had hitherto survived of his broken remnant of a host either taken prisoners or driven in headlong rout and ruin from the fatal field. "Thenceforward the King's sword was a useless bauble, less significant than the 'George' upon his breast." Charles bore his misfortune with a dignity and composure that reminds us of his valorous predecessor, the fifth Harry, when in similar peril. Upon his royal face there is no note How dread a peril hath enrounded him; Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night; But freshly looks, and overbears attaint, With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty. Chester still held out, and its preservation was of the utmost importance to the Royal cause, for it was the only place at which the King could hope to land the reinforcements expected from Ireland. It was inexpedient, however, for him to incur the risk of being shut up within the beleaguered city, and so at the close of that fatal Thursday when the fight on Rowton Heath was ended, and the grey twilight of the autumn evening was deepening into the sombre gloom of night, the ill-starred monarch--a monarch only in name--accompanied by a small guard and a few faithful followers, passed over the Dee Bridge a fugitive on his way to Denbigh. Everything which Charles or his friends attempted seemed to bear upon it the impress of a failing or utterly fallen cause. The defeated, powerless, almost friendless monarch was as unsuccessful in the business of diplomacy as he was in that of war; and whatever was indiscreetly planned was sure to be as rashly undertaken. Power had passed from his grasp; but suffering had hardly as yet wreathed its halo round his discrowned brow or