knights, should surrender themselves prisoners at discretion. These terms were repulsed with scorn. The worthy cardinal, deeply interested for Edward and his little army, used his utmost eloquence to soften the minds of the French, and obtain conditions which could be accepted with honour; but he pleaded in vain. The only resource, therefore, left, was to prepare for instant battle. In his black armour the noble Edward soon ineased himself, and prepared to animate his soldiers with his presence. Lord Audley had just distribut ed amongst them the last remaining stock of provisions, which they ate with cheerfulness; then joined hands, and drained the bowl with drinking success to the English arms; flushed high with hope, and inspired more by the love they bore their prince than even the remembrance of former victories, they had resolved to conquer or die gloriously. In this frame of mind they, in imagination, beheld their hero piercing with undaunted valour the thronged battalions of the enemy to emulate his ardour was their fixed resolve; and, animated by this glorious resolution, they grasped each other's hands, and rent the air with shouts of acclamation. Edward, when he heard the tale, disdained not to drop a tear of satisfaction at such assurance of his soldiers' love, which he justly considered the best harbinger of victory. A messenger at this moment announced to the prince that a person muffled in close disguise, just arrived from the French camp, solicited an audience; the stranger was admitted; when, throwing off his cloak, he cast himself at Edward's feet, and besought his mercy. It was Arnold! Arnold, who, too late calling his reason to his aid, came to confess his guilt, and offer (as the only possible reparation) to sacrifice his life amid the peril of the fight, so that in death he might prove his ever during attachment and gratitude to his royal master. Edward's heart softened at the sight of Arnold's affliction, but he resisted the soft impulse; his honour forbade him to pardon a traitor, a deserter from his side in the very moment of his utmost danger, the only one who had forsaken him; yet none, not one in all his camp could boast the favours Arnold had received from his bounteous master's hands. He bade him go, and if valour could redeem his lost fame, to try the effort; but that never, never again could they meet as friends: then waving his hand, Arnold left the tent. But a few moments now intervened. ere the commencement of the battle. Edward devoted the awful pause to prayer; he bent his knee to the earth, and implored the protection of Heaven. O Soul of nature! Great eternal Cause ** as Ere yet the fatal trumpet sounded to arms, Arnold passed along, he encountered Mariana: she, poor unhappy maid, unable to endure the sorrow and disgrace she had drawn upon her lover, had forsaken her friends, her country, and her father, to share his fate, to live or die with him. "Oh! Arnold (cried the afflicted fair one), as I have made thee guilty, I will share thy guilt; the ruin I have caused 'tis fit I should partake shouldst thou survive this dreadful battle, barefoot I'll wander through the world as penance for my crime, and follow though thou spurnest me; and shouldst thou fall (forbid it, gracious God), my brain's on fire at the thought of any harm to thee, yet shouldst thou fall, I'll perish by thy side; the sun shall never rise on Mariana's grief when Arnold is no more !" Arnold pressed her to his bosom, and imprinted a kiss upon her trembling lips: "Sweet maid! kind gentle Mariana! I only am to blame; thy timid soul knew not those sacred ties called honour, which bind man to man; thou, who sawest no danger but in death, didst not reflect upon the horrors of a disgraceful life e; or judge, that honour lost can never be recalled; I knew it all, I should have acted by the impulse of truth and integrity; but that is passed, and happiness is fled for ever. I therefore conjure thee, sweet Mariana, by the love thou bearest me, forsake this scene of carnage; it will soon present a sight too horrible for woman's eyes; return then, seek thine own safety, for know that I have sworn to brave all dangers, to rush into the thickest of the battle, to encounter death in all its varied dreadful shapes, to aid the cause of England and my prince, while I have strength, and then resign my life as a poor atonement to offended Heaven. Hark! the trumpet sounds, it calls me from thee! farewell for ever! oh! farewell!" He fled hastily, leaving her almost insensible in the arms of her attendant, the faithful Louisa who had encountered all the perils of a camp from àtachment to her mistress. Mariana too soon recovered to a full sense of her horrible situation; her brain seemed bursting, and her heart throbbed with a violence which appeared to threaten dissolution. The thought of Arnold's sorrows drove her almost to madness; again the dreadful trumpet assailed her affrighted ear, and her glowing imagination pictured the scenes which might follow; she saw the blood streaming from innumerable gashes; she heard the cries of the wounded, the groans of the dying; then in dread array her lover appeared, dealing destruction round; she saw him fall, and the uplifted falchion cleave his head in twain ; and, unable to endure the maddening picture her fancy had drawn, she uttered a piercing shriek, and rushed after Arnold, followed by her terrified attendant. The awful moment now arrived on which the fate of two great nations depended. Edward dared not indulge a hope; losing therefore dependence upon himself or his forces, he committed all to the care and protection of that Almighty power which alone could save them at such a crisis; he communicated his apprehensions to Audley, whose feelings were the same; they mutually resolved to die as Englishmen should die. With composed mien and firm undaunted steps the troops were marshaled for battle. Love and duty led them on ; conquest was hardly to be expected, it was scarcely within the limits of probability; conquer they might not, but they could fight and die like men and soldiers. The French, on the contrary, approached in full confidence, high in spirits, flushed with hope, assured of success, and with friends every where surrounding them. Well may the English historian record with triumph the annals of tnis glorious day, when this ittle band his valiant few routed, destroyed, and put tɔ fligns the numerous thousands opposed to them. King John and one of his sons were taken prisoners; while the others, with his brother the Duke of Orleans, saved themselves by flight-Arnold, true to his vow, fought with indescribable valour; the ground was strewed with the wonders of his powerful arm, till covered with innumerable wounds he fell, at last, by the sword of Ribemont. Prince Edward found him fainting on the field, raised him in his arms, and bade him live ;— his valour had atoned his fault, and the love and friendship of his prince were again open to him. Arnold's last moments were cheered by the sweet assurance of his royal master's forgiveness—but the wish for life was lost, even had the hope remained, since no valour could redeem the disgrace his ill fated love and weakness had drawn upon his name ; and death was the greatest mercy heaven could bestow. The sorrowing Edward closed his eyes, and gave the tribute of tears to the memory of him, whose whole life, save in one sad and solitary instance, had exhibited every thing which could have been wished or desired by the soul of nobleness and virtue. Last among the numbers of the conquered French, Ribemont lingered, bewailing the loss of his king and country, and envying those who had by death escaped the horrors of these galling thoughts. Never till this fatal battle had the valiant heart of Ribemont felt the least shade of apprehension; on the preceding evening an unusual gloom had sat upon his mind, but from what cause it could originate, he was at a loss to judge; he had encountered death in every form, why should the thought disturb him nowdeath, the common lot of human nature, possessed no terrors for the guiltless mind, and his conscience knew no taint of dishonour; was it then pity for the hopeless host, the valiant few, who with the coming day must meet destruction? yet why pity, the brave deserve not pity,--a nobler tribute is their due,-the |