Then the Knight of Montfaucon advanced with his troop of Norman horsemen--even as he dashed past, he did not fail to lower his shining sword to salute Gabrielle; and then with an exulting war-cry, which burst from many a voice, they charged the left wing of the enemy.

Eric's foot-soldiers, kneeling firmly, received them with fixed javelins--many a noble horse fell wounded to death, and in falling brought his rider with him to the ground; others again crushed their foes under them in their death-fall.
Folko rushed through--he and his war-steed unwounded--followed by a troop of chosen knights.

Already were they falling into disorder--already were Biorn's warriors giving shouts of victory--when a troop of horse, headed by Jarl Eric himself, advanced against the valiant baron; and whilst his Normans, hastily assembled, assisted him in repelling this new attack, the enemy's infantry were gradually forming themselves into a thick mass, which rolled on and on.

All these movements seemed caused by a warrior whose loud piercing shout was in the midst.

And scarcely were the troops formed into this strange array, when suddenly they spread themselves out on all sides, carrying everything before them with the irresistible force of the burning torrent from Hecla.
Biorn's soldiers, who had thought to enclose their enemies, lost courage and gave way before this wondrous onset.