The first line is swept to earth, the second line has fallen like wheat before the reaper’s sickle, and now the third line advances. Taken in flank by the archers, it turns and flees. In three hours the battle is over. Eleven thousand Frenchmen lie dead upon the field, prince and peasant “in one red burial blent.” Agincourt is won, and the English archer has gained a renown that shall not dim its lustre while the name of Britain endures. Once more King Harry is in France, and again none may stand against him. Rouen, after horrible sufferings, has surrendered; the French princes are busy murdering one another; the young King of Burgundy throws in his lot with the English, and the kingdom is at Henry’s feet. So a treaty is made: Henry is to marry the fair Katherine, daughter of the poor, witless King of France; he is to rule in his father-in-law’s name, and succeed him at his death. So Henry begins his wooing, and right merrily it goes despite his bad French and Katherine’s broken English. On Trinity Sunday in the year 1420 he leads the princess to the high altar of the church at Troyes, and they are married. Then the hero of Agincourt and his bride enter Paris amidst the approving shouts of the populace, many of whom wear the red cross, the badge of England. But a third campaign is necessary before the French and their Scottish allies are beaten and all north France up to the Loire owns Henry’s sway. And now, in the midst of his splendour, his health fails, and the doctors are mystified at his malady. As he sinks day by day, he learns that a son has been born to him at Windsor. At once an old prophecy flashes into his mind—— “I, Henry, born at Monmouth, Shall small time reign and much get; But Henry of Windsor shall long reign and lose all. But as God wills, so be it.” His last hour has come. He busies himself with prayer, and the priests sing psalms over him. When they reach the second verse of the 147th Psalm he cries, “Good Lord, Thou knowest that my mind was to build up the walls of Jerusalem.” He speaks no more. His life is done; his comet-like career is over. So he dies, leaving his infant son to reap the bitter harvest that he has sown. [Illustration: =THE MORNING OF AGINCOURT.= (_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, P.R.A._)] [Illustration] JOAN, THE MAID. “_King of France!”_ _She cried, “at Chinon, when my gifted eye_ _Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit_ _Prompted, I promised, with the sword of God,_ _To drive from Orleans far the English wolves_ _And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims._ _All is accomplished. I have here this day_ _Fulfilled my mission, and anointed thee_ _King over this great nation._”