"What! monseigneur," cried Henri, "you recognized me--you found yourself among a troop of Frenchmen, and would have left us to mourn your loss, without undeceiving us?" "Gentlemen, besides a number of reasons which made me wish to preserve my incognito, I confess that I should not have been sorry, since I was believed to be dead, to hear what funeral oration would have been pronounced over me." "Monseigneur!" "Yes; I am like Alexander of Macedon; I make war like an artist, and have as much self-love; and I believe I have committed a fault." "Monseigneur," said Henri, lowering his eyes, "do not say such things." "Why not? The pope only is infallible, and ever since Boniface VIII. that has been disputed." "See to what you exposed us, monseigneur, if any of us had given his opinion on this expedition, and it had been blamed." "Well, why not? do you think I have not blamed myself, not for having given battle, but for having lost it." "Monseigneur, this goodness frightens me; and will your highness permit me to say that this gayety is not natural. I trust your highness is not suffering." A terrible cloud passed over the prince's face, making it as black as night. "No," said he, "I was never better, thank God, than now, and I am glad to be among you all." The officers bowed. "How many men have you, Du Bouchage?" asked he. "One hundred, monseigneur." "Ah! a hundred out of ten thousand; that is like the defeat at Cannes. Gentlemen, they will send a bushel of your rings to Antwerp, but I doubt if the Flemish beauties could wear them, unless they had their fingers pared by their husbands' knives, which, I must say, cut well." "Monseigneur," replied Henri, "if our battle was like the battle of Cannes, at least we are more lucky than the Romans, for we have preserved our Paulus-Emilius!" "On my life, gentlemen, the Paulus-Emilius of Antwerp was Joyeuse; and doubtless, to preserve the resemblance with his heroic model to the end, your brother is dead, is he not, Du Bouchage?" Henri felt wounded at this cold question. "No, monseigneur, he lives," replied he. "Ah! so much the better," said the duke, with his icy smile. "What! our brave Joyeuse lives! Where is he, that I may embrace him?" "He is not here, monseigneur." "Ah! wounded?" "No, monseigneur, he is safe and sound." "But a fugitive like me, wandering, famished, and ashamed. Alas! the proverb is right--'For glory, the sword; after the sword, blood; after blood, tears.'" "Monseigneur, I am happy to tell your highness that my brother has been happy enough to save three thousand men, with whom he occupies a large village about seven leagues from here, and I am acting as scout for him." The duke grew pale. "Three thousand men! he has saved three thousand men! he is a perfect Xenophon, and it is very lucky for me that my brother sent him to me. It is not the Valois who can take for their motto 'Hilariter.'"