With his casque cleft open by an ax, an arrow through his right arm, a spear-hole in his cuirass, and the blood dropping over his coat of arms, Jean Charost, supported by one of his retainers, on whose shoulder his head rested, was borne slowly up the hill. His face could not be seen, for his visor was closed, but there was an expression of deep sadness on the faces of the two or three men who surrounded him, which showed that they thought the worst had befallen.
"Is he dead?" asked the old monk, looking at the man who led the horse.
"I can't tell, father," replied the soldier, gruffly. "He has not spoken since we got him out of the fray. Here is one who has done his duty, however. Oh, if they had all fought as he did!"
"I think he is not dead," said the other monk, riding up. "You see his hand is still clasped upon the rein, and once, I thought, he tried to raise his head."
"Bear him on--bear him on behind the trees," cried the older man, "and get the horses out of sight. He is not dead--his hand moves. How goes it, my son? How goes it? Be of good cheer."
A low groan was the only reply; but that was sign sufficient that life was not extinct, and Jean Charost was carried gently forward to a spot behind the trees, well concealed from the field of battle. The old monk, before he followed, paused to take one more look at the bloody plain of Azincourt. By this time, the main body of the French army was in as great disorder as the advanced-guard, while the English forces were making way steadily with the royal banner floating in the air.
"All is lost," murmured the monk. "God help them! they have cast away a great victory."
When he reached the little spot to which Jean Charost had been carried, the men were lifting him gently from his horse, and laying him down on the dry autumnal grass. His casque was soon removed; but his eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and uneven. There was a deep cut upon his head; but that which seemed robbing him of life was the lance wound in his chest, and, with hurried hands, the two monks unclasped the cuirass and back-piece, and applied themselves to stanch the blood.
"It has gone very near his heart," said the elder monk.
"No, no," replied the other; "it is too far to the side. You understand fighting better than I, Brother Albert, but I know more surgery than you. Here, hold your hand firmly here, one of you men, and give me up that scarf. Some one run down to the brook and get water. Take his bassinet--take his bassinet. We must call him out of this swoon before it is too late."