They fought now with a mad passion that was not to be withstood.…
The French gave way, inch by inch, and eventually retreated to the main body.
Without a moment’s pause the Prince, shouting to the Spanish cavalry to join him, dashed round to the aid of M. Bentinck, who was being overpowered by sheer numbers.
Time after time his little band was driven back, time after time he led them again to the charge. The French themselves were amazed at this undaunted persistence; more than once their ranks were broken, and when Count Königsmarck came with a Guelderland regiment to the support of his master they abandoned their attack on the cottage after a fight lasting two hours.
The sun was now high overhead, and the strong rays drove even through the choking smoke and glared on the armour of the combatants; the air was hot, dry, and close with the smell of blood and powder. The leaves, but a few hours ago so fresh, hung withered and burnt along the lower branches, and some of the neat painted out-buildings of the farm were burning steadily with pale flames and black smoke.
Rank after rank, line after line, the French cavalry rode up, and the right wing of the Dutch began to give way.
The Prince extricated himself from the confusion round the rescued outpost, and rode with M. Bentinck to his retreating men.
They had lost all their officers save one young ensign, a Friesland giant with bright gold hair, who seemed dazed, not knowing what to do. He fought like one in a dream, aimlessly, the red blood drying on his cuirass.
William dismounted, throwing his reins to M. Bentinck.