More and more intense became the interest of Ned, the son of Webb, and his companion. Almost unconsciously they pushed forward to get a nearer view of the combat. The contending forces were in many places so mingled that it was hardly possible to distinguish one party from the other. The din was dreadful.
"Hullo!" suddenly exclaimed Ned. "I declare! Father Brian's horse has run away with him. I hope he won't be killed."
His own animal also grew restive, and the next minute he was charging forward as if to take his share in the battle.
"I can't hold him in!" groaned Ned, tugging at his rein. "He is worse than Nanny herself. There, though! The English are breaking everywhere. It's going to be a first-class victory for us. Oh, dear! This fellow is taking me right along to the very front!"
There was peril, indeed, in that. There was no telling how far or into what the now frantic beast might gallop on.
Bound after bound, neighing loudly with fear, he dashed forward into the very thickest of the awful carnage, while his rider stared wildly around him upon the slayers and the slain.
"Oh!" yelled Ned. "That spear struck him! I must get off! He is falling!"
One of the hundreds of flying javelins had smitten his horse in the chest, burying its long, sharp blade almost a foot deep. Down sank the dying victim, snorting, screaming, and Ned sprang off only just in time to escape from being rolled under him.
"I did it all the better," he remarked, "for having no saddle or stirrups."