Clang, clang, followed blow on blow between those twain. It had been harder for Richard but that his foe was wearied with the heat and the long combat. Well and valorously did each hold his own, but a blow from another blade fell upon Richard's bosom, cleaving his breastplate. Then, even as he sank, across him strode what seemed some giant, and a wild cry in the Irish tongue went up as the O'Rourke poleaxe fell upon the shoulder of the knight of the golden wing.
"On!" shouted the furious chief. "On, men of the fens! Forward, Connaught and Ulster! Vengeance for our young lord! Down with the French!"
Hundreds of strong Irish had followed their leader, and timely indeed was their coming, for the sun was sinking, and need was to win the victory speedily.
"Alas!" said Guy the Bow, as he bent over Richard. "I pray thee, tell me, art thou deadly hurt, my lord?"
"Lift me!" gasped Richard. "Put me upon my feet. I would fight on and fall with the prince."
Quickly they lifted him, but he staggered faintly and leaned upon Guy the Bow.
"I fear he is sore hurt," muttered Guy.
But at that moment there arose a great shouting. It began among the reserves who were with the king on the slope of the hill.
"They fly! The foe are breaking! The day is ours! The field is won! God and St. George for England, and for the king!"
It was true, for the army of the King of France could bear no more. All things were against them. They could neither fight in ranks nor flee from the cloth-yard shafts.