For two full hours the moil went on till sheer exhaustion forced the wolves of war apart. They drew back to gain breath, some dazed like men half drunk, leaning on each other, grasping and staggering over the heath. Two Bretons were dead, many wounded, and three prisoners under Bamborough’s banner. The honor as yet was with the English; even Bertrand confessed it grudgingly as he leaned upon his axe.
The Sieur de Tinteniac came stumbling up to him, his visor up, his face gray, his eyes glazed.
“Give me a prop, Robin,” he said; “I have no breath in me. Curse these English, they have the devil in their bodies.”
Bertrand put his arm about Tinteniac’s body, his heart warm towards the man who had spoken for him before the rest.
“Wait, sire,” he said, grinding his teeth, “we have not finished with Bamborough yet.”
Tinteniac leaned on him, looking curiously at the eyes that showed through the visor.
“You sound hoarse as an old hound, Robin,” he said.
“My throat is dry,” and Bertrand turned away his head.
On came the English, massed in a solid wedge of steel. Tinteniac roused himself, their shouts stirring him like the scream of a trumpet. Bertrand kept close to him, knowing that the strong man was weak and wounded, and that he could cover him with Robin’s shield.
In the thick of the fight Bamborough of Ploermel had grappled the Sieur de Beaumanoir, and was dragging him by sheer strength from the mêlée.