Conde's cavalry made a splendid show. Squadron after squadron, fifteen or twenty in number, advanced with pennons flying and banners waving in the breeze. The sun shone on the steel-tipped lances, and the bared swords flashed like a forest of steel. Nearer and nearer thundered the horses: their hoofs rang hard on the causeway, and I expected every moment to hear the roar of our artillery. But every gun was dumb; not one opened its mouth, and not a single musket shot came from the shelter of the thick wood. What did it all mean? I did not know; in the excitement, did not even guess; it was enough that Turenne with his handful of troopers was flying before Conde's host. Still we maintained our order, and though riding fast rode together, every man preserving his proper place and distance. Suddenly there came an order from the Marshal, and like a flash we turned with our horses' heads facing the exulting enemy. "Charge!" shouted a voice, and without break or pause we thundered back, waving our swords and yelling, "_Vive le Roi!_" It seemed a mad thing to do, but Turenne was with us, and Turenne was worth an army. Conde's troopers tried to gather themselves against the shock, but, confident of victory, they were riding in loose order, and we gave them no time to close their ranks. Crash! We went into them like a thunderbolt, and the bravest rebel there could not stand against the furious onslaught. Turenne fought like an ordinary trooper, and as for Raoul, he outshone himself. I tried hard to keep up with him, but he outpaced me and every horseman in his squadron. "_Vive le Roi!_" he shouted, and "_Vive le Roi!_" answered back his toiling troopers. Once I lost sight of him in the press and feared he had gone down, but the next instant I heard his battle-cry again, and there he was, amidst a throng of foes on the very edge of the causeway. Another order from Turenne brought us to a halt, and we cheered frantically as the broken rebels crowded together in their efforts to escape. Suddenly Turenne's plan was made clear. A noise of thunder broke on our ears; the air was filled with smoke and flame, the struggling horsemen were bowled over by the great iron balls from the battery. The causeway had become a lane of death; men and horses fell to the ground; the confusion grew terrible; Conde's splendid cavalry was a mere rabble, struggling and fighting to get clear of the awful passage. Those who succeeded in breaking through galloped off swiftly, but, when the gunners ceased their work of destruction, the lane was carpeted with the bodies of the dying and dead. "Now, young sir," exclaimed Turenne, turning to me, "you may return and tell the Cardinal there is nothing to fear. The prince is thoroughly beaten and can attempt no more to-day. His Majesty can sleep in peace at Gien."