The safety of the whole host--the life and death, or captivity of the king--the destiny of all Europe--perhaps of all the world, depended at that moment on the arm of a madman. But that arm bore it all nobly up; and, though his armour was actually hewn from his flesh, and he himself bleeding from an hundred wounds, he wavered not a step; but, still striding over the body of the king, as he lay unable to rise, from the weight of his horse resting on his thigh, maintained his ground till, knight after knight arriving on both sides, the combat became more equal.
Still the fight around the royal banner was doubtful, when the battle-cry of De Coucy was heard approaching. "A Coucy! A Coucy! St. Michael! St. Michael!" rang over the plain; and the long lances of Tankerville, which had twice completely traversed and retraversed the enemy's line,[[31]] were seen sweeping on, in unbroken masses, like a thunder-cloud advancing over the heaven. The regular order they had still preserved, as well as their admirable training, and confidence in their leader, gave them vast superiority. The German pikemen were trampled under their tread. The knights were forced back at the point of the spear; the communes of Compiègne and Abbeville rallied behind them, and, in a short time, the field around the royal banner was once more clear of all enemies.
The first thing was to free the king from the weight of his horse, which had been stabbed in the neck, and was now quite dead. The monarch rose; but, before he remounted, though there were a thousand horses held ready for him, and a thousand voices pressing him to mount, he exclaimed, "Where is the Count d'Auvergne? I owe him life.--Stand back, Guillaume des Barres! your foot is on his chest. That is he in the black armour!"
It was indeed the unhappy Count d'Auvergne, who had borne up under a multitude of wounds, till the life of the king was in safety. He had then fallen in the melée, striking still, and lay upon a heap of dead that his hand had made. By the king's order, his casque was instantly unlaced; and Philip himself, kneeling beside him, raised his head upon his knee, and gazed in the ashy face to see if the flame of life's frail lamp was extinct indeed in the breast of him who had saved him from the tomb.
D'Auvergne opened his eyes, and looked faintly in the face of the monarch. His lips moved, but no sound issued from them.
"If thou diest, Auvergne," said Philip, in the fulness of his gratitude, "I have lost my best subject."
The count made another effort to speak. The king stooped over him, and inclined his ear. "Tell her," said the broken accents of the dying man,--"tell her--that for her love--I died--to save your life."
"I will," said Philip Augustus!--"on my faith, I will! and I know her not, or she will weep your fall."
There was something like a faint smile played round the dying knight's lip; his eyes fixed upon the king, and the spirit that lighted them passed away for ever!
"Farewell, Auvergne!" said the king. "Des Barres, see his body removed and honoured. And now, good knights," cried he, springing on horseback, "how fares the fight? My eyes have been absent too long. But, by my faith! you have worked well while I was down. The enemy's left is flying, or my sight deceives me."