The
Anglo-Breton D'Ardaine had fallen before Beaumanoir's sword, but
not before he had cut deeply into his enemy's shoulder. Sir
Thomas Walton, Richard of Ireland one of the Squires, and Hulbitee
the big peasant had all fallen before the mace of the dwarf
Raguenel or the swords of his companions. Some twenty men were
still left standing upon either side, but all were in the last
state of exhaustion, gasping, reeling, hardly capable of striking
a blow.
It was strange to see them as they staggered with many a lurch and
stumble toward each other once again, for they moved like drunken
men, and the scales of their neck-armor and joints were as red as
fishes' gills when they raised them They left foul wet footprints
behind them on the green grass as they moved forward once more to
their endless contest.
Beaumanoir, faint with the drain of his blood and with a tongue of
leather, paused as he advanced. "I am fainting, comrades," he
cried. "I must drink."
"Drink your own blood, Beaumanoir!" cried Dubois, and the weary
men all croaked together in dreadful laughter.
But now the English had learned from experience, and under the
guidance of Croquart they fought no longer in a straight line, but
in one so bent that at last it became a circle. As the Bretons
still pushed and staggered against it they thrust it back on every
side, until they had turned it into the most dangerous formation
of all, a solid block of men, their faces turned outward, their
weapons bristling forth to meet every attack.
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