d
almost entirely surrounded him [Sharon Turner]; and Gloucester himself
wondrously approved the trust that had consigned to his stripling
arm the flower of the Yorkist army. Through the mists the blood-red
manteline he wore over his mail, the grinning teeth of the boar's head
which crested his helmet, flashed and gleamed wherever his presence was
most needed to encourage the flagging or spur on the fierce. And there
seemed to both armies something ghastly and preternatural in the savage
strength of this small slight figure thus startlingly caparisoned, and
which was heard evermore uttering its sharp war-cry, "Gloucester to the
onslaught! Down with the rebels, down!"

Nor did this daring personage disdain, in the midst of his fury, to
increase the effect of valour by the art of a brain that never ceased
to scheme on the follies of mankind. "See, see!" he cried, as he shot
meteor-like from rank to rank, "see, these are no natural vapours!
Yonder the mighty friar, who delayed the sails of Margaret, chants his
spells to the Powers that ride the gale. Fear not the bombards,--their
enchanted balls swerve from the brave! The dark legions of Air fight
for us! For the hour is come when the fiend shall rend his prey!" And
fiendlike seemed the form thus screeching forth its predictions from
under the grim head-gear; and then darting and disappearing amidst the
sea of pikes, cleaving its path of blood!

But still the untiring might of Warwick defied the press of numbers
that swept round him tide upon tide. Through the mist, his black armour,
black plume, black steed, gloomed forth like one thundercloud in the
midst of a dismal heaven. The noble charger bore along that mighty
rider, animating, guiding all, with as much ease and lightness as the
racer bears its puny weight; the steed itself was scarce less terrible
to encounter than the sweep of the rider's axe. Protected from arrow and
lance by a coat of steel, the long chaffron, or pike, which projected
from its barbed frontal dropped with gore as it scoured along. No line
of men, however serried, could resist the charge of that horse and
horseman. And vain even Gloucester's dauntless presence and thrilling
battle-cry, when the stout earl was seen looming through the vapour, and
his cheerful shout was heard, "My merry men, fight on!"

For a third time, Gloucester, spurring forth from his recoiling and
shrinking followers, bending low over his saddle-bow, covered by his
shield,