On the slopes of a vineyard he could soon see their vanguard, kneeling with arms outstretched. ‘These cowards are ours,’ he exclaimed contemptuously, and at once ordered his artillery to fire; for he thought that the peasants begged for mercy, whereas, believing God was on their side, they really knelt in prayer. Mown down in scores, the Swiss maintained their ground; and Charles, to tempt them from their strong position, ordered a part of his army to fall back as if in rout. This ruse his own Burgundians misunderstood, the more that at the moment they received the command they could see the main Swiss forces advancing rapidly across the opposite heights and blowing their famous war-horns. Confusion ensued, and soon, in the words of an old Swiss chronicler, ‘the Burgundians took to their heels and disappeared from sight as though a whirlwind had swept them from the earth.’ Such was the unexpected victory of Granson, that delivered into Swiss hands the silken tents and baggage-wagons of the richest and most luxurious ruler in Europe. Carpets and Flemish lace, fine linen and jewellery, embroidered banners, beautifully chased and engraved weapons: these were some of the treasures, of which specimens are still to be found in the museums of the Cantons. Charles was defeated, ‘overcome by rustics whom there would have been no honour in conquering,’ as the King of Hungary expressed the situation in the knightly language of the day. Such a disgrace intensified Burgundian determination to continue the war; while the Swiss on their part found their resolution hardened by the sight of the garrison of Granson hanging from the trees. ‘There are three times as many of the foe as at Granson, but let no one be dismayed. With God’s help we will kill them all.’ Thus spoke a Swiss leader on the eve of the battle of Morat, where savage hand-to-hand fighting reduced the Burgundian infantry to a fragment and drove the Duke with a few horsemen in headlong flight from the field. Twice defeated, a wise prince might have done well to consider terms of peace with those who, though rustics, had proved more than his equals; but Charles, a brave soldier, would not recognize that his own bad generalship had largely contributed to his disasters. He chose to believe instead in that convenient but somewhat thin excuse for failure, ‘bad luck’, and prophesied that his fortune would turn if he persevered. More dubious of their ruler’s ability than his fortune, the Flemings, as they grudgingly voted money for a fresh campaign, besought their Duke to make peace. His former allies, once dazzled by his name and riches, were planning to desert him: but Charles was deaf alike to hints of prudence or tales of treachery.