"Little is there more to tell, madam," he proceeded, after a moment's pause. "By this time the battle had changed to a flight and a pursuit. There were not ten men who held together on the field. Shame to him who turns his back while one hope lasts; but no shame to him who flies from a lost field. I saw the duke galloping to the left; and as I knew the country well, I spurred for the bridge of La Buissiere, and sad it was to see the road all strewed with dead and dying. But when I came near the bridge, the matter was still worse, for there was that foul traitor, Campo Basso,[[4]] with a barricade of carts and wagons, cutting off the fugitives from his betrayed master's host. When I looked forward, there were the Italian devils--when I looked behind, down were coming the German swine. On the one hand was the hill, with the Swiss pikes gleaming over the top, and on the other was the river. The water afforded the only chance; so in we plunged. Our horses were strong and unwounded, and we struggled through, though many a gallant gentleman sunk close before our eyes. But, lady," he added, once more, as the excitement of detailing the battle passed away, "I am growing faint again, and in good sooth I have little more to tell; therefore, by your Grace's leave, I will retire."
Mary answered not a word, but gazed upon the old man with the same fixed painful glance; but the duchess bowed her head, and the Lord of Neufchatel, with the aid of his two attendants, moved towards the door.
Before he reached it, however, he paused, and turning round exclaimed--"Faith! I had forgot the very errand which made me make such haste; for I have travelled with scarcely an hour's rest, in order to bid you take instant measures to secure the country, for that wild young wolf of Lorraine will be upon the frontier speedily; and even as I passed by Brussels I heard strange tales of movements in France. You, my Lord of Imbercourt, look to it with all speed; for, believe me, not an hour is to be lost."
Thus saying, he turned and left the chamber, while Imbercourt advanced to the princess, and besought her to be comforted. She answered nothing, however; and only by a melancholy wave of the hand, expressed how deep were her apprehensions.
"Nay, Mary, my sweet child," said the duchess, "give not way to despair: remember, there is a God of mercy above us, who sees all, and rules all, for the best."
Mary of Burgundy cast her fair arms round her stepmother, and exclaiming, "My father! oh, my father!" burst into a passionate flood of tears.
"Leave us, my Lord of Imbercourt," said the duchess. "Let me beseech you to take all the measures necessary for our security; and send out messengers to gain more intelligence of this sad defeat. Call those whom you can best trust to council; and, for God's sake, suffer not your mind to be overcome at the moment that all its energies are most required."
Imbercourt bowed and withdrew: but there were circumstances in the situation of the country which rendered it impossible for him to act or think with that calm tranquillity which he had displayed at other times. A deep and heavy gloom fell over him from the first moment that the loss of the fatal battle of Nancy met his ear; and he never seemed wholly to recover his former energies.
He took care, however, to summon to the side of the princess, in her hour of need, all those who, he thought, might give consolation and support. Messengers were instantly despatched to the Lord of Ravestein, the Duke of Cleves, the Bishop of Liege, and several others, whose relationship to the house of Burgundy afforded the best security for their taking an interest in its fate; and Imbercourt endeavoured, as far as possible, to increase the military force within the town of Ghent, without exciting the watchful jealousy of the inhabitants; but the country was totally drained of men, and few, if any, could be added at a short notice to the force within the town--at least, few of those feudal troops on which alone reliance could be placed.
In the meanwhile, during the evening and the early part of the night which followed the arrival of the Lord of Neufchatel, post after post came in from the side of Alost and Brussels, bringing new details and rumours of the battle; and each additional fact proved it to have been more disastrous and bloody than it had appeared at first. Nothing was heard but long lists of the dead, or exaggerated computations of the total loss. Still, there was a deep silence in regard to the duke himself. No one knew what had befallen him in the fight or the pursuit; and no one ventured to assert, what all internally believed, that he had fallen upon that bloody plain. The very silence, however, was ominous; and the whole of the inmates of the ducal dwelling in Ghent passed the night in that gloomy apprehension, which is perhaps more racking to the heart than absolute sorrow.