But the Normans were not to be daunted. Man after man dropped dead from the ladder top,—man after man took his place; sometimes two at a time; sometimes scrambling over each other’s backs.
The English, even in the insolence of victory, cheered them with honest admiration. “You are fellows worth fighting, you French!”
“So we are,” shouted a knight, the first and last who crossed that parapet; for, thrusting Hereward back with a blow of his sword-hilt, he staggered past him over the hoarding, and fell on his knees.
A dozen men were upon him; but he was up again and shouting,—
“To me, men-at-arms! A Dade! a Dade!” But no man answered.
“Yield!” quoth Hereward.
Sir Dade answered by a blow on Hereward’s helmet, which felled the chief to his knees, and broke the sword into twenty splinters.
“Well hit,” said Hereward, as he rose. “Don’t touch him, men! this is my quarrel now. Yield, sir! you have done enough for your honor. It is madness to throw away your life.”
The knight looked round on the fierce ring of faces, in the midst of which he stood alone.
“To none but Hereward.”