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The cardinal turned and rode away, sore-hearted with pity. As he went the prince turned to his men.

“Though,” he said, “we be but a small company as compared with the power of our foes, let not that abash us; for victory lies not in the multitude of people, but goes where God sends it. If fortune makes the day ours, we shall be honored by all the world; but if we die, the king, my father, and your good friends and kinsmen shall revenge us. Therefore, sirs and comrades, I require you to do your duty this day; for if God be pleased, and Saint George aid, this day you shall see me a good knight.”

The battle began with a charge of three hundred French knights up the narrow lane. No sooner had they appeared than the vineyards and hedges rained arrows upon them, killing and wounding knights and horses; the animals, wild with pain, flinging and trampling their masters; the knights, heavy with armor and disabled by wounds, strewing that fatal lane with their bodies; while still the storm of steel-pointed shafts dealt death in their midst.

The horsemen fell back in dismay, breaking the thick ranks of footmen behind them, and spreading confusion wherever they appeared. At this critical moment a body of English horse, who were posted on a little hill to the right, rushed furiously upon the French flank. At the same time the archers poured their arrows upon the crowded and disordered mass, and the prince, seeing the state of the enemy, led his men-at-arms vigorously upon their broken ranks.

“St. George for Guienne!” was the cry, as the horsemen spurred upon the panic-stricken masses of the French.

“Let us push to the French king’s station; there lies the heart of the battle,” said Lord Chandos to the prince. “He is too valiant to fly, I fancy. If we fight well, I trust, by the grace of God and St. George, we shall have him. You said we should see you this day a good knight.”

“You shall not see me turn back,” said the prince. “Advance, banner, in the name of God and St. George!”

On went the banner; on came the array of fighting knights; into the French host they pressed deeper and deeper, King John their goal. The field was strewn with dead and dying; panic was spreading in widening circles through the French army; the repulsed horsemen were in full flight and thousands of those behind them broke and followed. King John fought with knightly courage, his son Philip, a boy of sixteen, by his side, aiding him by his cries of warning. But nothing could withstand the English onset. Some of his defenders fell, others fled; he would have fallen himself but for the help of a French knight, in the English service.

“Sir, yield you,” he called to the king, pressing between him and his assailants.

“To whom shall I yield?” asked the king. “Where is my cousin, the prince of Wales?”

“He is not here, sir. Yield, and I will bring you to him.”

“And who are you?”

“I am Denis of Morbecque, a knight of Artois. I serve the English king, for I am banished from France, and all I had has been forfeited.”

“Then I yield me to you,” said the king, handing him his right gauntlet.

Meanwhile the rout of the French had become complete. On all sides they were in flight; on all sides the English were in pursuit. The prince had fought until he was overcome with fatigue.

“I see no more banners or pennons of the French,” said Sir John Chandos, who had kept beside him the day through. “You are sore chafed. Set your banner high in this bush, and let us rest.”

The prince’s pavilion was set up, and drink brought him. As he quaffed it, he asked if any one had tidings of the French king.

“He is dead or taken,” was the answer. “He has not left the field.”