'Mort de dieu!' shrilled this good soldier, and threw up his spear arm.

'God's feet, Marshal, kill one or other of us!' said Richard lightly: he was pinned down by his struggling beast.

'I leave you to the devil, my lord Richard,' said the Marshal, and drove his spear into the horse's chest.
The beast's death-plunge freed his master.

Richard jumped up: even on foot his head was level with the rider's shield.

'Have at you now!' he cried; but the Marshal shook his head, and rode after his flying men.
The day was with Poictou, Le Mans must fall.
It fell, but not yet; nor did Richard see it fall.