ir. Sometimes a dozen were on the ground at
one time, but so strong was the armor, and so deftly was the force of a
blow broken by guard and shield, that the stricken men were often pulled
to their feet once more by their comrades, and were able to continue the
fight.

Some, however, were beyond all aid. Croquart had cut at a Breton knight
named Jean Rousselot and had shorn away his shoulder-piece, exposing
his neck and the upper part of his arm. Vainly he tried to cover this
vulnerable surface with his shield. It was his right side, and he could
not stretch it far enough across, nor could he get away on account of
the press of men around him. For a time he held his foemen at bay, but
that bare patch of white shoulder was a mark for every weapon, until at
last a hatchet sank up to the socket in the knight's chest. Almost at
the same moment a second Breton, a young Squire named Geoffrey Mellon,
was slain by a thrust from Black Simon which found the weak spot beneath
the armpit. Three other Bretons, Evan Cheruel, Caro de Bodegat, and
Tristan de Pestivien, the first two knights and the latter a squire,
became separated from their comrades, and were beaten to the ground
with English all around them, so that they had to choose between instant
death and surrender. They handed their swords to Bambro' and stood
apart, each of them sorely wounded, watching with hot and bitter hearts
the melee which still surged up and down the field.

But now the combat had lasted half an hour without stint or rest, until
the warriors were so exhausted with the burden of their armor, the loss
of blood, the shock of blows, and their own furious exertions, that they
could scarce totter or raise their weapons. There must be a pause if the
combat was to have any decisive end. "Cessez! Cessez! Retirez!" cried
the heralds, as they spurred their horses between the exhausted men.

Slowly the gallant Beaumanoir led the twenty-five men who were left
to their original station, where they opened their visors and threw
themselves down upon the grass, panting like weary dogs, and wiping the
sweat from their bloodshot eyes. A pitcher of wine of Anjou was carried
round by a page, and each in turn drained a cup, save only Beaumanoir
who kept his Lent with such strictness that neither food nor drink might
pass his lips before sunset. He paced slowly amongst his men, croaking
forth encouragement from his parched lips and pointing out to them that
among the Engli