At that moment I doubt whether Mathilde had a thought even for the lover for whose sake she had suffered so much; her father, the fond parent who had nurtured her from earliest infancy, upon whose knees she had sat and prattled, whose eyes had never lighted on her save with glances of tender love, whose conduct towards her had been one continued indulgence from the first hour of her recollection,--the father, moreover, whom she had selfishly left to live alone and bear his solitary lot in the world without his idolised child--that father was now in peril of his life, and probably about to perish before the very eyes of his ungrateful daughter. There she saw him, the brave old man, sitting upon his charger as if he were part of the animal, dealing blows right and left with the strength and vigour of a far younger man, parrying strokes aimed with right good will at his devoted head, and ever and anon shielding from attack some wounded follower, and covering the retreat of some retiring friends. And whilst the battle raged furiously around him, ever and anon the old man raised his war-cry aloud, “A Guerre-à-mort! a Guerre-à-mort!” and at each cry it seemed as if a new spirit animated his yielding troops, and with fresh energy they rallied and made head against the superior forces of their opponents. But the fight was too unequal to last. {134}That had happened which might have been anticipated. The Baron had attacked and partially routed a Yorkist band, when another party, directed by the shouts of battle, had hastened from their line of march and arrived in time to take part in the fray, and to throw a great preponderance of numbers on the side of the cause for which they fought. The Baron strove in vain to perform an impossibility, and to convert defeat into victory. His men fell fast by his side, and he was soon left almost alone, surrounded by the triumphant enemy. Mathilde could bear the sight no longer, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a flood of tears. But even thus the suspense was too terrible to bear. Presently, she lifted her eyes, and beheld the Lancastrians scattering in headlong flight, pursued by the triumphant partisans of the House of York. But where, oh! where was her father? She had not far to look. The old horse she knew so well lay dead upon the plain, but around him were clustered a group of men, evidently still engaged in some fierce conflict. In another moment they fell back, and she perceived a figure recumbent upon the ground, whilst a second figure stood over it, not to destroy, but to guard it from the blows of others. Could she--was it possible that she could--be mistaken? No: it was as she thought and hoped--her own Horace standing over the prostrate body of her father, was guarding his hereditary enemy from the destroying Yorkists.