The clamor of their war-cries filled the air, and
they tossed their pennoned spears over their heads in menace and
defiance. From the English line it was a noble sight, the
gallant, pawing, curveting horses, the many-colored twinkling
riders, the swoop and wave and toss of plume and banner.
Then a bugle rang forth. With a sudden yell every spur struck
deep, every lance was laid in rest, and the whole gallant squadron
flew like a glittering thunderbolt for the center of the English
line.
A hundred yards they had crossed, and yet another hundred, but
there was no movement in front of them, and no sound save their
own hoarse battle-cries and the thunder of their horses. Ever
swifter and swifter they flew. From behind the hedge it was a
vision of horses, white, bay and black, their necks stretched,
their nostrils distended, their bellies to the ground, whilst of
the rider one could but see a shield with a plume-tufted visor
above it, and a spear-head twinkling in front.
Then of a sudden the Prince raised his hand and gave a cry.
Chandos echoed it, it swelled down the line, and with one mighty
chorus of twanging strings and hissing shafts the long-pent storm
broke at last.
Alas for the noble steeds! Alas for the gallant men. When the
lust of battle is over who would not grieve to see that noble
squadron break into red ruin before the rain of arrows beating
upon the faces and breasts of the horses? The front rank crashed
down, and the others piled themselves upon the top of them, unable
to check their speed, or to swerve aside from the terrible wall of
their shattered comrades which had so suddenly sprung up before
them.
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