The prince came near the group around Richard, and, pausing from giving swift orders to his knights, he stepped forward.
"'Tis Richard of Wartmont!" he exclaimed. "Is he dying?"
Straight up stood Richard, raising his visor. He was ghastly pale, but his voice had partly come back to him.
"I think not, Prince Edward," he faltered. "But I thank Heaven that thou art safe!"
"Courage!" said the prince. "The field is ours, and thou hast won honor this day. Bear him with me to the king."
Here and there brave fragments of what had been the mighty host of France held out and still fought on; but they were not enough. All others sought to save themselves as best they might from the pitiless following of the English. Those in the rear who fled at once were safe enough, and the sunset and the evening shadows were good friends to many more of the French. Most fortunate were such horsemen as had not been able to get into the harrow, for only about twelve hundred knights were slain. With them, however, fell eleven princes and the King of Bohemia, and thirty thousand footmen. The King of France himself was a fugitive that night, seeking where he might hide his head.
From his place on the hill King Edward of England watched the closing of the great day of Crécy, and now before him stood a strange array. Shorn plumes, cloven crests or none, battered and bloody armor, broken swords, shivered lances, battle-worn faces, lighted somewhat by pride of victory, were arrayed before him. All were on foot, and each man bowed the knee.
Few, but weighty and noble with thanks and honor, were the words of the king. More he would say, he told them, when he should better know each man's meed of praise.
At length the Black Prince came forward, and he knelt before his father, to rise a knight, for he had won his spurs.