be alarmed if
they do outnumber us ten to one. We have begun nobly. Battles so bravely
won as these we have fought, have always been lauded to the skies. Your
fame shall never die. And as for myself, this is my task. I shall not
ask England to mourn for me nor to praise me. If I am not victor here,
or if I am slain, never shall she be asked for one penny to redeem me.
From the great battles of Poitiers and Cressy we learn that when the
French were the most swollen with pride they fell beneath our swords.
Our skill is none the less than that of those who fought under our great
grandsire when he defeated the French and cut their national emblems to
the ground."

What a battle array it was! The vanguard was led by the dread Duke of
York; the king himself in the midst of his brave guards sped in the
center with the main body of the troops, while the valiant rearguard was
captained by Excester, courageous as any man in the great army.

And now the fight begins! Armour on armour shines; drum now to drum does
groan,--to hear is wonder; that, with the cries they make, shakes the
very earth; trumpet to trumpet speaks, thunder to thunder.

From the ambuscade of our hidden forces the noble Erpingham gives the
signal for the English archers to fire. Now like a storm the
cloth-yard-long arrows sped by the strong bows of Spanish yew strike the
French horses, stinging them like serpents through the withers. Every
bowman stands to his place, not one deserting; every true English heart
rejoices in the slaughter.

Down go the bows when the arrows are shot, out spring the great swords,
as the English fly on the French, not one laggard in the company;
straight from their shoulders spring the blows that cleave the heads of
the French peasants and drop them in the dust of trampling feet.

Meantime the noble king, brandishing his broad-sword, dashes along the
French line as though to overwhelm it with his mighty blows, while many
a wound sheds blood on his arms and many a cruel dint sinks into his
helmet.

The good duke Glo'ster, next of the royal blood, fights side by side
with his brave brother, and the youthful Clarence in this almost the
first of his battles fights as furiously as any experienced knight;
Warwick wades in blood, and Oxford adds to the cruel slaughter of the
foe. Suffolk plies his axe manfully while Beaumont, Willoughby, Ferrers
and Fanhope, names for the English to conjure with, bear themselves as
bravely.

_He