Needless to tell of that fight of brother against brother with the horrors of the field. Hour after hour went by, hours of manoeuvring and change of front, and always with the king’s men gaining ground, and driving back the Parliamentarians, whose position seemed to be growing desperate. And as the Royalist leaders saw their advantage, they grew more reckless, and urged their men on, till it seemed as if a dozen lesser fights were in progress, the grim men of the Commonwealth fighting hard to hold their own.
This went on till the afternoon, when, in their exhaustion, the king’s men paused almost with wonder at the stubborn front still presented to their steel.
“It is their last despairing stand,” said the Royalist general to himself, and he gathered his men for a final advance upon the low hill crowned by the enemy.
The advance was made by men wearied out, against those who had not done half the marching and counter-marching, and as they swept on, they saw the change in the front for which they had looked so long—at first with triumph, then with despair. For now General Hedley sent forward his grim squadrons, held so long in reserve, and, raging with their long inaction, they dashed down the slope like a thunderbolt which met the Cavaliers half-way, broke through them, rode them down, and before the two parts into which they were divided could recover in the slightest degree, from the right and left flanks fresh squadrons broke down upon them, and in five minutes the imaginary triumph had become a rout.
The king’s banner that day lay low, the royal standard trailing in the dust, as a wild shout of victory was raised by the soldiers of the Parliament, and the gaily caparisoned Cavaliers in bitter despair fled broken and in disorder for their lives.
“Oh, evil fortune!” groaned Sir Godfrey, as he reluctantly galloped away beside his son, their jaded horses going heavily, with heaving flanks. “Quick, my boy, quick!”
“Oh, father,” cried Scarlett, “and we are galloping away from home.”