Confusion begins to wave her death-dealing wand. The halbertmen at the breach stand for full five minutes almost motionless under a hail of arrows and missiles, waiting for the word of command.
And on the Bapaume road, de Balagny and his troops are quickly drawing nigh. Already the white banner with the gold Fleur-de-Lys stands out clearly against the sky.
Parma has seen it, and cursed with savage fury. He is a great and mighty warrior and knows that the end has come. The day has brought failure and disgrace; duty now lies in saving a shred of honour and the remnants of a scattered army. He cannot understand how it has all happened, whence this French troop has come and by whose orders. He is superstitious and mystical and fears to see in this the vengeful finger of God. So he crosses himself and mutters a quick prayer, even as a volley of musketry fired insolently into the air, reverberates down the Bapaume road.
France is here with her great armies, her unconquered generals: Condé, Turenne, have come to the rescue. Parma's wearied troops cannot possibly stand the strain of fighting in the rear whilst still pushing home the attack in front. How numerous is the French advancing troop it is impossible to guess. They come with mighty clatter and many useless volleys of musketry, with jingling of harness and breastplates and clatter of hoofs upon the road. They come with a mighty shout of 'Valois! and Fleur-de-Lys!' They wave their banners and strike their lances and pikes together. They come! They come!
And the half-exhausted Spanish army hears and sees them too. The halbertmen pause and listen, the archers halt halfway across the moat, whilst all around the whisper goes from mouth to mouth:
"The French are on us! Sauve qui peut!"
Panic seizes the men. They turn and scurry back over the declivity of the moat. The stampede has commenced: first the cavalry, then the infantrymen, for the French are in the rear and legions of unseen spirits have come to the aid of Cambray.
The Duke of Parma now looks like a broken wreck of his former arrogant self. His fine accoutrements are torn, the trappings of his charger are in tatters, his beard has been singed with gunpowder, he has no hat, no cloak. Raging fury is in his husky voice as he shouts orders and counter-orders to men who no longer hear. He calls to his officers, alternately adjures and insults them. But the French troops draw nearer and nearer, and nothing but Death will stop those running Spanish soldiers now.
To right and left of the Bapaume road they run, leaving that road free for the passage of de Balagny's small troop. Out in the western sky, the sun is setting in a mantle of vivid crimson, which is like the colour of human blood. The last glow illumines the final disgrace of Parma's hitherto unconquered hordes. The cavalry is galloping back to the distant camp, with broken reins and stirrups hanging loose, steel bonnets awry, swords, lances, broken or wilfully thrown aside. Behind them, the infantry, the archers, the pikemen, the halberdiers—all running and dragging their officers away with them in their flight.
Parma's unconquered army has ceased to be.