The story reads almost exactly like that of the Spaniards when they took the fort by surprise. Entirely without suspicion, the garrison were taking their dinner. Suddenly, a musket shot, and the cry of "The French! the French!" There were sixty men. in this, the outwork. They were all killed. But there remained the second fort. De Gourgues turned the cannon upon it, and a lively artillery fight began. The Floridans, at this moment, emerged from the woods. A detachment of French attacked the fort

in the rear. The Spaniards, ignorant of the number

of the enemy, lost their heads. The second fort was taken with a rush, and all the Spaniards killed except fifteen, whom De Gourgues ordered to be bound and kept in safety for the moment. There yet remained Fort Caroline itself. Here there were 300 combatant men. De Gourgues surrounded the fort with his Indians, and prevented any spy from coming out, so that the besieged had no notion of the numbers of their assailants. The Commandant, in surprise and indecision, allowed two days to pass before doing anything. Then he sent out a spy disguised as an Indian. He was caught, and, being brought before De Gourgues, he had the imprudence to confess that the garrison was horribly discouraged, believing the French to be 2000 strong. Thereupon De Gourgues resolved on an immediate attack.

The Spaniards thought that his little army, all of

which was now in sight, was only an advance-guard. The French, thinking the moment inopportune, retired into the wood again to watch. The Spaniards sent out a body of sixty, with the view of drawing them out into the open. De Gourgues detached twenty of his own men, to place themselves in ambush between the fort and the sortie, so as to cut off their retreat. Then, before the Spaniards had time to form themselves, he poured a murderous fire into their ranks, and rushed upon them, sword in hand. They turned to fly, and were met by the ambuscade. Not one returned to the fort. The rest of the French rushed tumultuously out of the wood, and all together, headed by De Gourgues, they crowded into the citadel.

A panic seized the Spaniards. They allowed themselves to be cut down almost without resistance. Out of the whole force of 300, De Gourgues only managed to save sixty.

He would have saved more, to make his revenge more complete. As it was, he wrote an inscription, which he placed so that all could see-"I do this not to Spaniards, but to traitors, thieves, and murderers."

Then he hanged them up, every one, the Floridans looking on aghast. This done, he destroyed the fort, and returned to France. He was received with enthusiasm at Rochelle, an entirely Protestant town.

Philip demanded that he should be arrested, and handed over to the mercies of the Spanish law. So

Coligny's Protection.

149

great was the Spanish influence, that De Gourgues was ordered not to present himself at Court, and the Spanish Ambassador was informed that he would be arrested. This would actually have been done, but for the remonstrance of the Admiral. The greater part of the Council, carried away by the advice of the Cardinal de Lorraine, who made out this exploit to be a declaration of war against Spain, would have voted for his extradition, "had it not been that M. de Chatillon, in his own manner, severe and full of gravity, pointed out that if De Gourgues had had so much courage as to undertake alone what all France should have done, he deserved great recompense instead of punishment; and that those who condemned' him for an act so generous, seemed to wish us already shamefully subject to our chief enemy. And you would hardly believe how much the resolution which followed brought honour and glory to the Admiral, as was manifest by the declaration of the foreign ambassadors who were at Court."

After the deaths of Coligny (in 1572) and of Montluc (in 1577), this poor patriot had no more protectors. He retreated to England, where Elizabeth gave him a refuge and, when opportunity came, employment. And he died in 1583, while, characteristically, organising a new expedition against Florida.

CHAPTER VIII.

FIRST CIVIL WAR.

have arrived at the last and the most unhappy period of Coligny's career-the twelve years of civil war. It was the most unhappy, because to one trained as he had been in the unflinching loyalty which has always been a characteristic of great houses, rebellion against the King's authority could only be justified by the gravest reason; and because, in these tumults which rent the kingdom asunder, destroyed the fairest provinces, and covered the soil of France with the blood of her own children, he saw the enemies of his country taking advantage of her weakness, and working their will, unchecked and undisturbed. And then there seemed no end to the struggle. A victory here, a defeat there, was nothing. They could arrive at no decisive conclusion: no treaty, truce, or peace was observed. Even the simple claim for toleration which the Admiral put forward at every pause in the war, though admitted by the terms of the treaty, was broken the very next day. Nor was it a small thing

for him, the man of culture and artistic tastes-the simple, home-loving man, who desired nothing more than to enjoy in peace the companionship of wife and children-that he should see, as he lived to see, his castle sacked of all his treasures. And his heart would be crushed by seeing his wife sink sadly into a premature grave with two of her children, one brother poisoned, and the other killed by hard work and fatigue.

We have seen the Admiral slowly arriving at the conviction that it was his duty to take openly the side on which his faith lay; we have seen him, at Vendome and La Ferté, counsel patience; we have seen him again, at the Assembly of Fontainebleau, present a petition in the name of the Protestants, asking for a redress of grievances: we have, in this chapter, to see him at the head of an armed host, resolved to seize liberty of conscience at the sword's point.

Let us remember that the history of France might have been that of England. We can picture to ourselves a king less strong-willed than Henry, oscillating between fear of Rome and desire of independence. We may think what might have happened if the learned doctors of England-Cranmer, Latimer, Ridley, Cheke, Tyndal, and the rest-had either held aloof, like Budé, Rabelais, Dolet, and Desperiers, or had flung themselves fanatically into the opposite side.