onward, the Prince, Chandos, Audley and Nigel ever in the van.

A huge warrior in black, bearing a golden banner, appeared suddenly in
a gap of the shredding ranks. He tossed his precious burden to a squire,
who bore it away. Like a pack of hounds on the very haunch of a deer the
English rushed yelling for the oriflamme. But the black warrior flung
himself across their path. "Chargny! Chargny a la recousse!" he
roared with a voice of thunder. Sir Reginald Cobham dropped before his
battle-ax, so did the Gascon de Clisson. Nigel was beaten down on to
the crupper of his horse by a sweeping blow; but at the same instant
Chandos' quick blade passed through the Frenchman's camail and pierced
his throat. 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.

"Je me rends! je axe rends!" he panted.

For a moment a vision of rich ransoms passed through Nigel's brain. That
noble palfrey, that gold-flecked armor, meant fortune to the captor. Let
others have it! There was work still to be done. How could he desert
the Prince and his noble master for the sake of a private gain?