Then I noted how few wounded there were.

The sun, nigh to setting now, broke out and shone athwart the hillside; and it sparkled like the ice heaps on the long banks that a winter's tide has left by the river, for everywhere were the mail-clad slain.

But the sparkles were steady, as on the ice, not as on a host that is marching.

Ice cold were those who would need mail no more on Ashingdon hill.
"The sword is under the horse," the man said groaning.

And it was so, and unhurt.
"Get me a sword from off the field," I said, "and hide Foe's Bane somewhere.