h ranks rose to their feet,
uncased their bows and strung them all as though with a single hand. A
second command and every bow was bent. A third and with a noise that was
half hiss and half moan, thousands of arrows leapt forward. Forward they
leapt, and swift and terrible they fell among the ranks of the advancing
Genoese. Yes, and ere ever one had found its billet, its quiver-mate was
hastening on its path. Then--oh! the sunlight showed it all--the Genoese
rolled over by scores, their frail armour bitten through and through by
the grey English arrows. By scores that grew to hundreds, that grew
till the poor, helpless men who were yet unhurt among them wailed out in
their fear, and, after one short, hesitant moment, surged back upon the
long lines of men-at-arms behind.

From these arose a great shout: "_Trahison! Trahison! Tuez! Tuez!_" Next
instant the appalling sight was seen of the chivalry of France falling
upon their friends, whose only crime was that their bow-strings were
wet, and butchering them where they stood. So awful and unexpected was
this spectacle that for a little while the English archers, all except
Grey Dick and a few others cast in the same iron mould, ceased to ply
their bows and watched amazed.

The long shafts began to fly again, raining alike upon the slaughterers
and the slaughtered. A few minutes, five perhaps, and this terrible
scene was over, for of the seven thousand Genoese but a tithe remained
upon their feet, and the interminable French lines, clad in sparkling
steel and waving lance and sword, charged down upon the little English
band.

"Now for the feast!" screamed Grey Dick. "That was but a snack to sharp
the appetite," and as he said the words a gorgeous knight died with his
arrow through the heart.

It came, the charge came. Nothing could stop it. Down went man and
horse, line upon line of them swept to death by the pitiless English
arrows, but still more rushed on. They fell in the pits that had been
dug; they died beneath the shafts and the hoofs of those that followed,
but still they struggled on, shouting: "Philip and St. Denis!" and
waving their golden banner, the Oriflamme of France.

The charge crept up as a reluctant, outworn wave creeps to a resisting
rock. It foamed upon the rock. The archers ceased to shoot and drew
their axes. The men-at-arms leapt forward. The battle had joined at
last! Breast to breast they wrestled now. Hugh's sword was red, and red
was Grey