"Comme vous voulez," said the Marshal, shrugging his shoulders. "Mais tout est perdu. On ne peut plus."
The Captain of the Wight turned in his saddle--he raised his sword.
"Men of the Wight, now is our time. Men-at-arms, close your ranks. Archers and billmen, prepare to charge. Let all men follow me."
A loud and ringing cheer broke from all that eager band of armed men, and with a fierce alacrity the square broke up. The little force of men-at-arms in front, the infantry forming their serried ranks behind.
"'Tis too late!" muttered Tom o' Kingston, and many of the older and cooler heads agreed with him.
"'Twould be better to march off the field as we are," said Sir John Trenchard; "they'll never dare to touch us--they've had too much of it already, and we could join the garrison of Fougéres, who are marching upon Rennes."
But these experienced soldiers kept their grumblings to themselves, and prepared to do their duty, even though they knew death to be the reward.
As Dicky Cheke rode behind his chief, he noticed a wounded archer, and was struck by his calm courage. The man had lost one leg from a cannon shot, but he was still sitting up supporting himself on the other and shooting steadily at the French. When he saw his comrades were about to leave him, without a word or thought of himself, he called out to his comrade,--
"Dickon, have thou mine arrows, I can go no more. There are still three left. Take them and riddle yonder Frenchmen. Give my love to Sue, poor lass! I'll just lay me down a while."
And so the archers parted; and Dicky rode on more grave than he had ever been in his life.