The bridges connecting the island of Lobau with the bank of the Danube upon which the army had been fighting were not broken: hence the troops could be led back to the island. Once there, the position could be fortified and held, until the Vienna arm of the river could be rebridged. This was done. Several weeks were spent in preparations, reënforcements brought up, larger, better bridges built, and all made ready for another attempt to cross. The Archduke Charles, believing that Napoleon would direct his march upon Aspern and Essling, as before, calmly waited, confident that he could beat the French as before. On the night of July 4, 1809, while a terrible thunderstorm was raging, Napoleon began his attack upon the Austrian position at Essling and Aspern. This was a feint to hide his purpose of crossing at another place, in front of Enzersdorf. While the Archduke’s attention was fixed on the two villages first named, the French made a dash at Enzersdorf, and took it. Several bridges, ready-made, had been thrown across the river here, and Napoleon’s army had passed almost before the Austrian knew what he was about. Then the Archduke drew back into the vast plain of the Marchfeld, and three hundred thousand men lined up for the great battle of Wagram. From the roofs and ramparts of Vienna, excited thousands gazed upon that vast wheat field, yellow in the summer sun, where the harvester Death was to reap where humble peasants had sown. For two days the tremendous struggle lasted. The Austrians never fought better. In sight of fathers and sons, of wives, daughters, sisters, sweethearts, who would not fight well for home and native land? What did the Austrian soldier know of the cause of the war? He knew as much as his masters chose to tell him; and in his heart he believed the French to be aggressors, tyrants, marauders, come to loot and ruin and enslave. So they stood amid the burning wheat in the golden grain fields, beneath the torrid sun, and fought as Napoleon had never seen them fight--fought as men fight only when their souls are in it. And far off on the housetops, steeples, and battlements of old Vienna were straining eyes, beating hearts, hungry prayers, and the wild hope that these marauders from France would be scattered as the Turks had been scattered in that dread time long ago. But in those olden days Christians could hear the cry of Christians, could fly to the relief of Christians. What bannered host was that which had burst like a storm upon the Moslem rear, scattering infidels like so much dust, bringing salvation to the beleaguered town? Who but the Polanders and John Sobieski had smitten the Turk and sent the crescent backward in flight before the cross? That was many and many a year ago. There would be no “Poland to the rescue!” this time. Poland had been devoured--by Moslems? No; by Christians. And at the feast Austria had sat, greedily eating her share.