Alas! Already many of the gay gentlemen who had ridden so joyously through St. Martin had fallen; but there was no time to mourn their loss. Turenne was in front, and the folds of the King's banner, shot-torn and blackened, were fluttering in the breeze. In after years our gracious monarch's colours were borne in many a hot encounter, but never, I think, in a more desperate fray than the struggle at St. Antoine, between--shame on those who made it possible--Frenchmen and Frenchmen. No war is good to look upon in cold blood, when the lust of battle has died away, but a cruel fight between men of the same blood and race is abominable. Yet, on that day, I question if it made any of us more gentle to know that our enemies were Frenchmen. "Forward!" cried our chief, and with a rush we swept the street from end to end, crying, "_Vive le Roi!_" as if victory were already won. Then, suddenly, the roar of the guns greeted us, and, under cover of the smoke, Conde leaped into our midst at the head of his household troops. From the first I have maintained that the prince did France a foul wrong in setting himself against his rightful monarch, but it cannot be denied that he was a splendid soldier. With his war-cry ringing high and clear above the tumult he came at us; the fight grew terrible; our infantry, unable to avoid the horses, fell back in confusion, leaving a scattered handful of cavaliers to continue the contest alone. Seeing his advantage, the prince flung every available horseman at us, and, though fighting desperately, we were driven back by force of numbers. Again and again we returned to the charge, and many gallant feats of arms were performed, but victory appeared hopeless, and we listened anxiously for the sound of La Ferte's cannon. Thus far, at least, Raoul's judgment had proved correct. Ill news came both from right and left. Our men, suffering fearfully from the hidden musketry fire, made headway only at a wasteful expense of life. More than one high officer had fallen at the barricades, and Conde, who seemed to be in several places at once, beat back each fresh assault. Everywhere our soldiers were growing dispirited, and even talked of waiting for help; but Turenne, who had an iron will, would not hear of defeat. Rising in his stirrups, and looking steadily at his band of cavaliers, he cried cheerfully, "One more charge, gentlemen!" "For the King!" answered Raoul, waving his stained sword above his head, and we all echoed the cry lustily.