Those who, by swiftness of eye, escaped this fate, sprung at the horses like wildcats, clinging to the saddles, while they strove to bury their knives in the riders' bodies.
Their back pieces now served the troopers in good stead, as did their superior personal strength.

Some beat their assailants down on to the pommel of their saddles, and throttled or stabbed them; while in many cases, where they were hard pressed, the sword of a comrade rid them from their foes.
So the line held on its way, until they reached the head of the body of fugitives.

Then in obedience to the shout of Sir John Burgon they turned, broke up into small bodies, and scoured the plain, cutting down the flying foe; and did not draw bridle, until what remained of the enemy had gained the shelter of the wood.

Then, at the sound of their leader's trumpet, they gathered around him in the centre of the plain.
Two or three had fallen from the Welsh arrows, and not a few had received ugly slashes from their knives; but, with these exceptions, all had come scatheless through the fray.

At least two hundred dead Welshmen were scattered on the plain.
"You have done your work well, men," Sir John said, "and taught them a lesson that they will not forget.