"By God's soul, John!" cried the Prince, "it is very sure that you can
see more with one eye than any man in this army with two. But it is even
as you say. And this larger band behind?"

"They should be Germans, fair sir, by the fashion of their harness."

The two bodies of horsemen had moved slowly over the plain, with a
space of nearly a quarter of a mile between them. Now, having come two
bowshots from the hostile line, they halted. All that they could see
of the English was the long hedge, with an occasional twinkle of steel
through its leafy branches, and behind that the spear-heads of the
men-at-arms rising from amidst the brushwood and the vines. A lovely
autumn countryside with changing many-tinted foliage lay stretched
before them, all bathed in peaceful sunshine, and nothing save those
flickering fitful gleams to tell of the silent and lurking enemy who
barred their way. But the bold spirit of the French cavaliers rose the
higher to the danger. 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