repared for the
shock of so heavy a brigade of cavalry; and they broke and yielded
like a dam before a resistless flood. No mercy was shown them. Many
were driven into the Ouse on the right, and so miserably drowned;
others fled in a body before the prince, who pursued them for four
miles, hacking, hewing, quartering, slaughtering. Just like the
Rupert of the later Civil Wars, he sacrificed the victory to the
headlong impetuosity of his nature.

Now let us turn to the left. On the crest of the hill, which there
rose steeply, were the tents and baggage of the barons. Over one of
these floated Earl Simon's banner, and close by was a litter in
which he had been carried during a recent illness, but which now
only contained four unfortunate burgesses of London town who were
detained as hostages because they had attempted to betray the city
to King Henry.

Towards this height the foolish Richard directed his charge, fully
believing that the head and front of all the mischief, Simon
himself, was in that litter, and that he should crush him and the
rebellion together. But such showers of stones and arrows came from
the hill that his forces were disorganised, and when Earl Simon
suddenly strengthened his sons by the reserve, their united forces
crushed the King of the Romans and all his men. They descended with
all the impetus of a charge from above, and the enemy fled.

Then the earl might have made the mistake which Prince Edward made
on the opposite side, and followed the flying foe; but he was far
too wise. He saw on his left the centre under the Earl of
Gloucester, fighting valiantly on equal terms with the royal centre
under King Henry. He fell upon its flank with all the force of his
victorious array: one deadly struggle and the royal lines bent,
curved, broke, then fled in disorder, the old king galloping
furiously towards the priory, fleeing in great fear for dear life.

Yet more ludicrous was the fate of his brother Richard, King of the
Romans, who, while Henry reached the priory wounded, had taken
refuge in the windmill, where he was being baited, almost in joke,
by the victorious foes, amidst cries of:

"Come out you bad miller!"

"You to turn a wretched mill master!"

"You who defied us all so proudly!"

"You, the 'ever Augustus!"

At length the poor badgered king, seeing that they were preparing
to set the mill on fire and smoke him out, surrendered to a
follower of the Earl of Gloucester, Sir John Bix