Part 40

A few months after Sidney's capture of Axel, Leicester reviewed her Majesty's troops at Arnhem; and it was then that Sir Philip at last persuaded him to strike a decisive blow at the Spanish. Having actually obtained his uncle's permission to fight, Sidney lost no time in unsheathing his sword. Five days after the review at Arnhem, he and his brother Robert and the young Earl of Essex, with a small force, stormed and carried the fortress of Doesburg, each one of the three fighting brilliantly.

The Earl of Essex was son to Sir Philip's old friend, and brother to Penelope Devereux, and was that Essex whom Elizabeth caused to be beheaded some years after.

As another result of Sidney's importunities, Leicester laid siege to Zutphen, which was a very important post, and the strongest city in Gelderland. A week was spent in throwing up intrenchments about the city and making ready for an attack. Sidney, together with the Count of Nassau and Sir John Norris, was put in command of a body of cavalry and directed to hold Gilbert Hill,--a rise of ground less than a mile from the east gate of Zutphen.

When the English were nearly ready to attack, news was brought to Leicester that large quantities of provisions were being transported to the besieged city by the Spanish, and that an attempt would be made to smuggle them in.

On receipt of the news, Leicester ordered Sir John Norris and Sir William Stanley to take five hundred men and cut off the convoys as they approached.

Sir Philip was not included in the commission, but he was so eager to act that he joined Norris and Stanley of his own accord. He was fully armed as he rode up to the troops, but meeting one of his friends without leg-armour, he rashly cast off his own cuisses, that he might run equal risk.

The Spanish convoys were expected to arrive in the night, but a gray, foggy morning dawned before the tramp of their horses' feet was heard. Nearer and nearer it came to the waiting five hundred,--when suddenly the fog lifted and the little band of English found themselves face to face with a splendidly equipped Spanish force of over five times their own number. They had not dreamed that the wagon-train would be so accompanied.

The sun rose clear--fatally clear for that gallant little band of Britons. The guns of the city were trained on them; they were in easy shot of the Spanish in front and the Spanish behind--surprised, tricked, surrounded. And there was no mist to puzzle the enemy's terrible aim! But English chivalry stood the test that day, and English swords rang true.

Young Essex, a boy of twenty, made the first dash, crying to his men as he went,

"For the honor of England, good fellows, follow me!" They followed him, and for a while, at least, beat back the enemy with their curtle-axes. Lord Willoughby, and many another gallant cavalier, carved his way to fame that day.

But Sidney was the hero of Zutphen--Sidney "of the delicate form and golden hair." One might almost fancy him the matchless Bayard come again, or the very incarnate spirit of battle, so splendidly did his genius and courage rise in the storm of carnage. None might hope to equal him or match his many deeds that day. Once, seeing Willoughby surrounded and far over among the enemy, Sidney, with a few followers, fought through to him and accomplished his rescue. Twice he charged the Spanish, pressing them back and hacking them down in his path.

At the crisis of the second charge, his horse was shot under him; but he quickly mounted another. Then in one last glorious dash, he cut his way straight through the Spanish masses, and he did not stop while there was a foe to be beaten out of his path. But when he had blazed his solitary way entirely through the ranks of the enemy, and was faced with empty trenches beyond, he turned his horse to press back again. As he wheeled back, a musket-ball struck him in the thigh and gave him a mortal wound. The horse he was riding was not trained to battle, and, taking fright at the din about him, became utterly unmanageable to Sidney's weakening grasp. The terror-stricken animal struggled out of the press and dashed, with his almost fainting rider, back to Leicester's distant camp.

As some of the soldiers rushed to him to help him down, Sidney was seized with the terrible thirst of the wounded, and begged for a drink of water. He was about to press the flagon to his parched lips when he saw the eyes of a wounded foot-soldier turned agonizingly toward it. Without tasting it, he at once handed it to the dying man, with the words,--

"Thy necessity is greater than mine."

But Sidney's necessity was great--so great that the skill of man could not avail to save him; and after a long, agonizing illness, he expired at Arnhem in the arms of his heart-broken wife.

So lived and died Sir Philip Sidney, the last and most perfect flower of knighthood,--failing in his efforts to revive the old passing chivalry, but, all unconsciously, achieving more than his cherished ideal in teaching men how to live and die nobly in the changed order of things.

SIDNEY IN TOURNAMENT

Call back the gorgeous past! The lists are set, the trumpets sound, Bright eyes, sweet judges, throned around; And stately on the glittering ground The old chivalric life! "Forward!" The signal word is given; Beneath the shock the greensward shakes; The lusty cheer, the gleaming spear, The snow-plume's falling flakes, The fiery joy of strife! Thus, when, from out a changeful heaven O'er waves in eddying tumult driven A stormy smile is cast, Alike the gladsome anger takes The sunshine and the blast! Who is the victor of the day? Thou of the delicate form, and golden hair, And manhood glorious in its midst of May; Thou who upon thy shield of argent bearest The bold device, "The loftiest is the fairest!" As bending low thy stainless crest, "The vestal throned by the west" Accords the old Provençal crown Which blends her own with thy renown; Arcadian Sidney, nursling of the muse, Flower of fair chivalry, whose bloom was fed With daintiest Castaly's most silver dews, Alas! how soon thy amaranth leaves were shed; Born, what the Ausonian minstrel dream'd to be, Time's knightly epic pass'd from earth with thee!

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON

"The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust; His soul is with the saints, I trust."