This time he was firmly resolved, deep
in his gallant soul, that he would come no foot back, but would
find his death there amongst his foemen or carve a path into the
heart of their ranks. The fire in his breast spread from man to
man of his followers, and amid the crashing of blows they still
locked themselves against the English shields and drove hard for
an opening in their ranks.
But all was vain! Beaumanoir's head reeled. His senses were
leaving him. In another minute he and his men would have been
stretched senseless before this terrible circle of steel, when
suddenly the whole array fell in pieces before his eyes, his
enemies Croquart, Knolles, Calverly, Belford, all were stretched
upon the ground together, their weapons dashed from their hands
and their bodies too exhausted to rise. The surviving Bretons had
but strength to fall upon them dagger in hands, and to wring from
them their surrender with the sharp point stabbing through their
visors. Then victors and vanquished lay groaning and panting in
one helpless and blood-smeared heap.
To Beaumanoir's simple mind it had seemed that at the supreme
moment the Saints of Brittany had risen at their country's call.
Already, as he lay gasping, his heart was pouring forth its thanks
to his patron Saint Cadoc. But the spectators had seen clearly
enough the earthly cause of this sudden victory, and a hurricane
of applause from one side, with a storm of hooting from the other
showed how different was the emotion which it raised in minds
which sympathized with the victors or the vanquished.
Pages:
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440