CHAPTER VI.
THE ENGLISH UNDER JENKINS.
But the Prince had not calculated that there was a line of British infantry behind the routed Irish Brigade.

Borne on with the hurry of the melee, flushed with triumph, puffing and blowing with running, and forgetting, in the intoxication of victory, the trifling bayonet-pricks which had impelled them to the charge, the conquering National Guardsmen found themselves suddenly in presence of Jenkins's Foot.
They halted all in a huddle, like a flock of sheep.
"UP, FOOT, AND AT THEM!" were the memorable words of the Duke Jenkins, as, waving his baton, he pointed towards the enemy, and with a tremendous shout the stalwart sons of England rushed on!--Down went plume and cocked-hat, down went corporal and captain, down went grocer and tailor, under the long staves of the indomitable English Footmen.
"A Jenkins! a Jenkins!" roared the Duke, planting a blow which broke the aquiline nose of Major Arago, the celebrated astronomer.

"St.George for Mayfair!" shouted his followers, strewing the plain with carcasses.

Not a man of the Guard escaped; they fell like grass before the mower.
"They are gallant troops, those yellow-plushed Anglais," said the Duke of Nemours, surveying them with his opera-glass.

"'Tis a pity they will all be cut up in half an hour.