With the Black Prince

by William O. Stoddard

"Hail to thee, Richard Neville!" sang out the prince. "Victory! The town is ours! Bruyerre is taken!"

All the Frenchmen heard, as well as all the English. What was joy to one party was utter discouragement to the other.

"Surrender!" commanded the prince. "The fool who fighteth now hath his blood upon his own head!"

Spears were lowered, swords were sheathed, crossbows were dropped, brave men-at-arms gave their names to Sir Henry and his knights, and the peril in the great square was over.

"Well for us," coolly remarked Sir Henry. "The guards from the ramparts were arriving. My Lord of Cluse did not rightly number the garrison."

Nor had the English believed that so many townsmen could turn out so speedily. Nevertheless, when arms were given up the Frenchmen were no longer soldiers, and their numbers were of no more value.

"Richard Neville, I will well commend thee to my father! I think he will give thee thy spurs."

So spake the prince, with his hands on the shoulders of his friend, and looking into his face admiringly.

"Prince Edward," broke out the heir of Wartmont warmly, "I have done little. The taking of Bruyerre is thine. It was all thy plan."