h stood, and no assault could move them.
They could lean against each other back to back while they waited and
allowed their foemen to tire themselves out. Again and again the gallant
Bretons tried to make a way through. Again and again they were beaten
back by a shower of blows.

Beaumanoir, his head giddy with fatigue, opened his helmet and gazed in
despair at this terrible, unbreakable circle. Only too clearly he could
see the inevitable result. His men were wearing themselves out. Already
many of them could scarce stir hand or foot, and might be dead for any
aid which they could give him in winning the fight. Soon all would be in
the same plight. Then these cursed English would break their circle to
swarm over his helpless men and to strike them down. Do what he might,
he could see no way by which such an end might be prevented. He cast his
eyes round in his agony, and there was one of his Bretons slinking away
to the side of the lists. He could scarce credit his senses when he
saw by the scarlet and silver that the deserter was his own well-tried
squire, William of Montaubon.

"William! William!" he cried. "Surely you would not leave me?"

But the other's helmet was closed and he could hear nothing. Beaumanoir
saw that he was staggering away as swiftly as he could. With a cry of
bitter despair, he drew into a knot as many of his braves as could still
move, and together they made a last rush upon the English spears. This
time he was firmly resolved, deep in his gallant soul, that he would
come no foot back, but would find his death there amongst his foemen
or carve a path into the heart of their ranks. The fire in his breast
spread from man to man of his followers, and amid the crashing of blows
they still locked themselves against the English shields and drove hard
for an opening in their ranks.

But all was vain! Beaumanoir's head reeled. His senses were leaving him.
In another minute he and his men would have been stretched senseless
before this terrible circle of steel, when suddenly the whole array
fell in pieces before his eyes, his enemies Croquart, Knolles, Calverly,
Belford, all were stretched upon the ground together, their weapons
dashed from their hands and their bodies too exhausted to rise. The
surviving Bretons had but strength to fall upon them dagger in hands,
and to wring from them their surrender with the sharp point stabbing
through their visors. Then victors and vanquished lay groaning and
p