A knight on the other side did the same.
"For God and the Empress," said the former.
"For God and the King," cried the latter.
Instantly the two charged, and their followers waited to see the result: the lance of the King's man broke; that of Sir Brian held firm, and coming full on the breast, unhorsed the other, who fell heavily prone, on his head, like one who, as old Homer hath it, "seeketh oysters in the fishy sea."
The others waited no longer, but eager on either side to share their leader's fortunes, charged too. Oh, the awful shock as spear met spear; oh, the crash, the noise, the wild shouts, the splintering of lances, then the ringing of swords upon armour; the horses caught the enthusiasm of the moment and bit each other, and struck out with their fore-legs: it was grand, at least so they said in that iron age.
But it was soon decided—fortune kept steadfast to her first inclinations—the troops fared as their leaders had fared—and those who were left alive of the Donnington men were soon riding southward for bare life.
Brian ordered the trumpeter to recall his men from the pursuit.
"Let them go—I have their leader—he at least shall pay ransom; they have been good company, and we feel sorry to see them go."
The poor leader, Sir Hubert of Donnington, the eldest son of the lord of that ilk, was lifted, half-stunned, upon a horse behind another rider, while Brian remembered Osric.
What had been the feelings of the latter?