They handed their
swords to Bambro' and stood apart, each of them sorely wounded,
watching with hot and bitter hearts the melee which still surged
up and down the field.
But now the combat had lasted half an hour without stint or rest,
until the warriors were so exhausted with the burden of their
armor, the loss of blood, the shock of blows, and their own
furious exertions, that they could scarce totter or raise their
weapons. There must be a pause if the combat was to have any
decisive end. "Cessez! Cessez! Retirez!" cried the heralds, as
they spurred their horses between the exhausted men.
Slowly the gallant Beaumanoir led the twenty-five men who were
left to their original station, where they opened their visors and
threw themselves down upon the grass, panting like weary dogs, and
wiping the sweat from their bloodshot eyes. A pitcher of wine of
Anjou was carried round by a page, and each in turn drained a cup,
save only Beaumanoir who kept his Lent with such strictness that
neither food nor drink might pass his lips before sunset. He
paced slowly amongst his men, croaking forth encouragement from
his parched lips and pointing out to them that among the English
there was scarce a man who was not wounded, and some so sorely
that they could hardly stand. If the fight so far had gone
against them, there were still five hours of daylight, and much
might happen before the last of them was laid upon his back.
Pages:
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433