With eerie screams they houghed the horses and, when the riders fell, hacked open the lacings of their helms, and, unheeding of any cries for mercy, drove the great knives home.

At length all were dead, and they returned again waving those red knives and singing some fierce chant in their unknown tongue.
The battle was not over yet.

Fresh horses of Frenchmen gathered out of arrow range, and charged again under the banners of Blois, Alencon, Lorraine, and Flanders.

Forward they swept, and with them came one who looked like a king, for he wore a crown upon his helm.

The hawk-eyed Dick noted him, and that his bridle was bound to those of the knights who rode upon his either side.