Awhile the white crest danced amid hostile helmets and spears--then vanished.
"He is down!" screamed Gilbert, in agony, hewing his way toward the king.

Rodolph was alone against a host, while his horse sank up to his knees in the marshy ground.

Before succor could arrive, a sword had cloven through the monarch's wrist, and his right hand fell to the ground.
"It is the hand that I raised when swearing allegiance to Henry," muttered Rodolph, bitterly.

With tears in his eyes, Gilbert struggled to reach the king, who, unarmed and disabled, drove his steed against the circle that hemmed him in.

His crest was gone, and his armor hacked and stained with blood: still fearlessly he bore up against his foes, and seemed to rejoice in the unequal strife.