So died Geoffrey de Chargny; but the oriflamme was saved.
Dazed with the shock, Nigel still kept his saddle, and Pommers,
his yellow hide mottled with blood, bore him onward with the
others. The French horsemen were now in full flight; but one
stern group of knights stood firm, like a rock in a rushing
torrent, beating off all, whether friend or foe, who tried to
break their ranks. The oriflamme had gone, and so had the blue
and silver banner, but here were desperate men ready to fight to
the death. In their ranks honor was to be reaped. The Prince and
his following hurled themselves upon them, while the rest of the
English horsemen swept onward to secure the fugitives and to win
their ransoms. But the nobler spirits--Audley, Chandos and the
others--would have thought it shame to gain money whilst there
was work to be done or honor to be won. Furious was the wild
attack, desperate the prolonged defense. Men fell from their
saddles for very exhaustion.
Nigel, still at his place near Chandos' elbow, was hotly attacked
by a short broad-shouldered warrior upon a stout white cob, but
Pommers reared with pawing fore feet and dashed the smaller horse
to the ground. The falling rider clutched Nigel's arm and tore
him from the saddle, so that the two rolled upon the grass under
the stamping hoofs, the English squire on the top, and his
shortened sword glimmered before the visor of the gasping,
breathless Frenchman.
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