"We have had our pleasant times, Hoogstraaten," he added; "our gay morning was fair and easy, and now we are men and must take the labour and heat of the day——"
He stopped abruptly; his quick ear had caught the sound of an opening door. It was the Seigneur de Louverwal who entered; he carried dispatches which had, he said, been forwarded to one Van Baren—an agent of the Prince in Brussels—and by him to Strasburg.
The letters were from Count Louis and the agent himself.
William's lips tightened, the blood receded from his dark cheek, and he caught his under lip with his teeth as he read his brother's letter.
It was written from a farmhouse on the German frontier, and announced the Count's pitiable and utter overthrow.
Out-manœuvred by Alva, harassed by mutinous troops, lack of money, and provision, betrayed by his own fiery impatience, Louis had been driven to the village of Jemmingen on the Ems, and there his wretched forces had been wiped out by Alva's splendid army and Alva's cool skill.
Those who had escaped the battle were massacred; the blood of nearly ten thousand rebels had washed from Alva's laurels the stain left by the little victory of Heiliger Lee.
William read the letter over twice, then sank into a chair; he was never sanguine, but he had not been prepared for such a blow as this. He felt his head reel and his heart beat fast; the light of the little lamp grew dim before his eyes and the room dark. It was with an unsteady hand that he handed the letter to Hoogstraaten.
So the third of the armies he had got together with such infinite pains and toil and sacrifice had disappeared before Alva like chaff before a bright flame.
De Cocqueville in Artois, De Villars in Juliers, Louis at Jemmingen—all defeated, utterly, completely, for ever.