In spite of the darkness, the Wolf (having slipped away from his English companions, and left his cloak and a heap of dead leaves to represent him) had gone straight to the spot where he was to meet Du Guesclin, who heard with stern joy the success of his plan for drawing away half the English army to repel an imaginary attack, and lost no time in setting off to fall on the other half by surprise.
It was past midnight, and the English left to guard the camp were nearly all asleep in careless confidence, and dreaming of stormed towns and rich booty, when a drowsy sentry, leaning on his spear, heard a rustle in the thicket beside him, and ere he could utter his challenge, a crushing blow smote him down, while a swarm of dark figures, bursting from the shadowy wood, dashed down into the unprepared camp like a cataract.
So complete was the surprise, that many of the English were slain or taken ere they were fully awake; and few had time either to spring up or seize their weapons. Instantly all was confusion. Tents were overthrown, horses cut loose, waggon-wheels broken, military engines disabled; and at last the conquerors, with a mighty shout of “Notre Dame, Du Guesclin!” swept away the few who still resisted, and set the camp on fire.
It was the blaze of this fire that had startled Lancaster and his men, and sent them hurrying back. But the same blaze had called to the ramparts the defenders of Rennes, to whom it was a token of deliverance; and the shrewd old commandant, guessing what had happened, at once got five hundred of his best men under arms, charging their leader, Huon de St. Yvon, to watch the fit moment for a sally on the English rear, while Du Guesclin pressed them in front.
But only by the slackening of the English war-cry, and the swell of the answering French shout, could the anxious watchers on the walls guess how the fight was going; for of its actual progress little or nothing could be seen. Only at times did they catch a dim and doubtful glimpse of shadowy masses of men surging up against each other, clashing, parting, meeting once more, while a keen glitter of steel ran through the gloom like a shower of flying sparks. Ever and anon, a whirl of struggling forms came rushing athwart the line of light cast by the rising flames, clearly visible for one instant, and then swallowed by the blackness once more.
But as the flames rose higher, the issue of the fray was no longer doubtful.
Bertrand and his men had won their way through the English force between them and the town, and the final battle was now raging round a number of store-waggons just brought in by the English from the surrounding country, with supplies which would be a priceless gift to the starving town. The English, on the other hand, knew that if that food reached the town all their toil would be thrown away; and they fought like tigers to beat the assailants back.
“Lads!” roared Du Guesclin, “within yon walls are women weeping over their starving children, and here is the food that can save them!”
Fired by this appeal, the Bretons rushed on again, and the English put forth all their might to bar the way. The fight was at its hottest, when Huon saw his chance, and, flinging open the gate, came like a thunderbolt on the English ranks with a shout of “St. Yves for Bretagne!”
Thus attacked on both sides at once, the stubborn besiegers began to give way. The Bretons pressed on—the English fell back—the precious supplies drew nearer and nearer to the town. Already all seemed won, when from the gloom broke a hoarse roar of thousands of voices, “Lancaster! Lancaster! St. George for England!” and the duke and his men, just returned from their fruitless quest, came charging to the rescue.