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And now the serried ranks of the French men-at-arms, their helms well down, the shields before their left arms, and with lances in rest, came cantering over the rise in front.

"Now, archers, let fly your shafts," cried the Captain of the Wight, and a twanging sound instantly followed, for every archer knew what was coming, and had already put his arrow on the string. The rushing sound which fluttered in the air was succeeded by a splintering crack or dull thud, or heavier groan, as the shafts flew home. And many a gallant man-at-arms fell to the ground in the death sob. But still fresh ranks came topping the hill, and fierce shouts arose. "A bas les Anglais! Tuez les!" from the steel-clad figures who cantered onward in grim resolve.

Some few of the foe would not be refused, and in spite of cloth yard shaft and sturdy pike, pushed home into the first ranks of the square, but only to perish under the daggers of the footmen, or be kept as prisoners to be held to ransom afterwards.

The bravery of these men-at-arms was very conspicuous. They rode up to the face of the square and thrust fiercely with their long lances at the pikemen, and bodies of two or three would charge at full speed upon the halberds, and then leap their horses over the first ranks. But the men of the Wight stood firm, and although a heavy groan or occasional scream would tell of a deadly wound or ghastly thrust, no opening had been made, and still the grey goose shaft did its deadly and silent work.

"Well done, my merry men," called out the clear voice of the Captain of the Wight. "We will tell of this round many a cheerful yule-tide fire."

But Ralph did not like this way of fighting. He had pictured the battle to himself as a charge of gallant knights, where individual prowess would have a chance of distinction. As yet he had exchanged no blows, and he longed to get out of the stifling mass of crowded infantry.

There now came a lull. The closely thronging men-at-arms seemed daunted by the bold face of the English footmen. They drew off, and retired behind the brow of the hill, followed by the deadly arrows of the archers.

"Bravo, Messieurs les Anglais," said the deep voice of the tough old Marechal de Rieux. "I vish nevare to be vid more better fantassins. I mak you mes felicitations."

The hill became thick with lances, and a tall and very graceful knightly figure could be seen riding amid a press of splendidly armed knights.

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