til
there was space to swing a sword and to guide a steed. For ten acres
there was one wild tumultuous swirl of tossing heads, of gleaming
weapons which rose and fell, of upthrown hands, of tossing plumes and
of lifted shields, whilst the din of a thousand war-cries and the
clash-clash of metal upon metal rose and swelled like the roar and beat
of an ocean surge upon a rock-bound coast. Backward and forward swayed
the mighty throng, now down the valley and now up, as each side in turn
put forth its strength for a fresh rally. Locked in one long deadly
grapple, great England and gallant France with iron hearts and souls of
fire strove and strove for mastery.

Sir Walter Woodland, riding hard upon his high black horse, had plunged
into the swelter and headed for the blue and silver banner of King John.
Close at his heels in a solid wedge rode the Prince, Chandos, Nigel,
Lord Reginald Cobham, Audley with his four famous squires, and a score
of the flower of the English and Gascon knighthood. Holding together and
bearing down opposition by a shower of blows and by the weight of their
powerful horses, their progress was still very slow, for ever fresh
waves of French cavaliers surged up against them and broke in front only
to close in again upon their rear. Sometimes they were swept backward
by the rush, sometimes they gained a few paces, sometimes they could but
keep their foothold, and yet from minute to minute that blue and silver
flag which waved above the press grew ever a little closer. A dozen
furious hard-breathing French knights had broken into their ranks, and
clutched at Sir Walter Woodland's banner, but Chandos and Nigel guarded
it on one side, Audley with his squires on the other, so that no man
laid his hand upon it and lived.

But now there was a distant crash and a roar of "Saint George for
Guienne!" from behind. The Captal de Buch had charged home. "Saint
George for England!" yelled the main attack, and ever the counter-cry
came back to them from afar. The ranks opened in front of them. The
French were giving way. A small knight with golden scroll-work upon his
armor threw himself upon the Prince and was struck dead by his mace. It
was the Duke of Athens, Constable of France, but none had time to note
it, and the fight rolled on over his body. Looser still were the French
ranks. Many were turning their horses, for that ominous roar from
the rear had shaken their resolution. The little English wedge poured