as it did so,
from the interior of the mass one man fell to the ground, dead. No one
needed to ask who it was. The royal fleurs-de-lis and lions on the
surcoat, with an escocheon of pretence bearing the arms of Leon and
Castilla--the princely coronet surrounding the helmet--were enough to
tell the tale. Other men might come alive out of the fight of
Agincourt, but Edward Duke of York would only leave it a corpse.

He stands on the page of history, a beacon for all time. No man living
in his day better knew the way of righteousness; no man living took less
care to walk in it. During the later years of his life, it seemed as if
that dread Divine decree might have gone forth, most awful even of
Divine decrees--"Let him alone." He had refused to be troubled with
God, and the penalty was that God would not be troubled with him: He
would not force His salvation on this unwilling soul. And now, when
"behind, he heard Time's iron gates close faintly," it was too late for
renewing to repentance. He that was unholy must be unholy still.
Verily, he had his reward.

The end of the struggle was now approaching. On every side the French
were hemmed in and beaten down. Prince Humphrey had been earned to the
royal tent, but the King was still in the field--here, there, and
everywhere, as nearly ubiquitous as a man could be--riding from point to
point, and now and then engaging in single-handed skirmish. A French
archer, waiting for an opportunity to distinguish himself, levelled his
crossbow at the royal warrior, while he remained for a moment
stationary. In another second the victory of Agincourt would have been
turned into a defeat, and probably a panic. But at the critical instant
a squire flung himself before the King, and received the shaft intended
for his Sovereign. He fell, but uttered no word.

"Truly, a gallant deed, Master Squire!" cried Henry. "Whatso be your
name, rise a knight banneret."

"The squire will arise no more, Sire," said the voice of the Earl of
Huntingdon behind him. "Your Highness' grace hath come too late; he is
dead."

"In good sooth, I am sorry therefor," returned the King. "Never saw I
braver deed, ne better done. Well! if he leave son or widow, they may
receive our grace in his guerdon. Who is he? Ho, archer! thou bearest
our cousin of York his livery, and so doth this squire. Win hither--
unlace his helm, and give us to wit if thou know him."

And when the helm was unlaced,