"A defeat!" murmured the king.
But all at once, with a strange look.
"Then Flanders is lost to my brother?"
"Absolutely, sire."
"Without hope?"
"I fear so, sire."
The clouds gradually cleared from the king's brow.
"That poor Francois," said he, smiling; "he is unlucky in his search for a crown. He missed that of Navarre, he has stretched out his hand for that of England, and has touched that of Flanders; I would wager, Du Bouchage, that he will never reign, although he desires it so much. And how many prisoners were taken?"
"About two thousand."
"How many killed?"