Paul was presently aware that he and the men about him, the prince still at his side, were charging down the little eminence upon which they had been posted, straight at the serried ranks of the Yorkist army, which kept its position, and awaited their coming with cool intrepidity.

Paul had not time to think or reason, or he would surely have wondered at the rashness of quitting an advantageous position, and putting themselves to such disadvantage before the foe.

All he knew was that the duke's company had moved first, and had charged upon the enemy, and that their military monk had given the word to follow and support their friends; which was done without a moment's hesitation, whether the movement were, strategically speaking, right or wrong.
And then, all in a moment as it seemed, the prince and his comrade found themselves in a fierce melee, in which for a while they could scarce move hand or foot, jammed in by the press of men and steeds, but surrounded by friends and comrades, who were eagerly pressing forward toward the foe.

Cries and shouts rent the air, mingled sometimes with the shriek or groan which told that a well-directed blow had gone home to its mark.

The press became denser, and then less dense; some riderless horses from the front rank came tearing back through the crush, forcing their way in a sort of mad terror; and Edward, snatching his battle-axe from its resting place across his saddle bow, swung it over his head, and shouted to his companion: "Follow me, Paul! yonder lies the foe.