Thus the English
stood, and no assault could move them. They could lean against
each other back to back while they waited and allowed their foemen
to tire themselves out. Again and again the gallant Bretons tried
to make a way through. Again and again they were beaten back by a
shower of blows.
Beaumanoir, his head giddy with fatigue, opened his helmet and
gazed in despair at this terrible, unbreakable circle. Only too
clearly he could see the inevitable result. His men were wearing
themselves out. Already many of them could scarce stir hand or
foot, and might be dead for any aid which they could give him in
winning the fight. Soon all would be in the same plight. Then
these cursed English would break their circle to swarm over his
helpless men and to strike them down. Do what he might, he could
see no way by which such an end might be prevented. He cast his
eyes round in his agony, and there was one of his Bretons slinking
away to the side of the lists. He could scarce credit his senses
when he saw by the scarlet and silver that the deserter was his
own well-tried squire, William of Montaubon.
"William! William!" he cried. "Surely you would not leave me?"
But the other's helmet was closed and he could hear nothing.
Beaumanoir saw that he was staggering away as swiftly as he could.
With a cry of bitter despair, he drew into a knot as many of his
braves as could still move, and together they made a last rush
upon the English spears.
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