Dick's axe. Fight as they would, the English were borne back.
The young Prince waved his arm, screaming something, and at that sight
the English line checked its retreat, stood still, and next plunged
forward with a roar of:

"England and the Prince!"

That assault was over. Backward rolled the ride of men, those who were
left living. After them went the dark Welsh. Their commanders ordered
them to stand; the Earl of Warwick ordered them to stand. The Prince
himself ordered them to stand, running in front of them, only to be
swept aside like a straw before a draught of wind. Out they broke,
grinning and gnashing their teeth, great knives in their hands.

The red Dragon of Merlin which a giant bore led them on. It sank,
it fell, it rose again. The giant was down, but another had it. They
scrambled over the mass of dead and dying. They got among the living
beyond. With eerie screams they houghed the horses and, when the riders
fell, hacked open the lacings of their helms, and, unheeding of any
cries for mercy, drove the great knives home. At length all were dead,
and they returned again waving those red knives and singing some fierce
chant in their unknown tongue.

The battle was not over yet. Fresh horses of Frenchmen gathered out
of arrow range, and charged again under the banners of Blois, Alencon,
Lorraine, and Flanders. Forward they swept, and with them came one who
looked like a king, for he wore a crown upon his helm. The hawk-eyed
Dick noted him, and that his bridle was bound to those of the knights
who rode upon his either side. On them he rained shafts from his great
black bow, for Grey Dick never shot without an aim, and after the battle
one of his marked arrows was found fixed in the throat of the blind king
of Bohemia.

This second charge could not be stayed. Step by step the English knights
were beaten back; the line of archers was broken through; his guard
formed round the Prince, Hugh among them. Heavy horses swept on to them.
Beneath the hoofs of one of these Hugh was felled, but, stabbing it from
below, caused the poor beast to leap aside. He gained his feet
again. The Prince was down, a splendid knight--it was the Count of
Flanders--who had sprung from his horse, stood over him, his sword point
at his throat, and called on him to yield. Up ran Robert Fitzsimmon, the
standard bearer, shouting:

"To the son of the King! To the son of the King!"

He struck down a knight with the pole of his standar