"Thou art too late," said the King sternly, pointing to the awful smoke-hung field. "Hadst thou come sooner some loyal blood might have been saved."
It was the sole reproach he made: he was past anger as he was past hope.
"God damn and the devil roast them!" cried Rupert, in a fury. "But we will withstand them yet!"
With swiftness and skill he seconded the King's courageous efforts to rally the remnant of the horse, and these drew up for a final stand in front of the baggage wagons and carriages, where the camp followers shrieked and cowered.
For the third time Oliver Cromwell formed his cavalry, being now joined by Ireton, who, though wounded, had rallied the survivors of Rupert's pursuit, and now, in good order and accompanied by the shotmen and dragoons, advanced towards the remnants of the royal horse.
The King seemed like one heedless of his fate: his face was colourless and distorted, the drying tears stained his cheek. He looked over the hillocks scattered with the dead and dying who had fallen for him, and he muttered twice, through twitching lips—
"Broken, broken! Lost, lost!"
The parliamentary dragoons commencing fire, Rupert headed his line for his usual reckless charge, and Charles, galloping to the front, was about to press straight on the enemy's fire, when a group of Cavaliers rode up to him, and one of them, Lord Carnwath, swore fiercely and cried out—
"Will you go upon your death in an instant?"