On they came, two deep, with lances high over their shoulders, heads and heels well down, while the green tufts flew behind them, “_A moi, hommes d’armes!_” shouted the Abbot. But too late. The French turned right and left. To form was impossible, ere the human whirlwind would be upon them. Another half-minute and with a shout of “A bear! a bear. The Wake! the Wake!” they were struck, ridden through, hurled over, and trampled into the mud. “I yield. Grace! I yield!” cried Thorold, struggling from under his horse; but there was no one to whom to yield. The knights’ backs were fifty yards off, their right arms high in the air, striking and stabbing. The battle was “_à l’outrance_.” There was no quarter given that day. “And he that came live out thereof Was he that ran away.” The Abbot tried to make for the wood, but ere he could gain it, the knights had turned, and one rode straight at him, throwing away a broken lance, and drawing his sword. Abbot Thorold may not have been the coward which Peter of Blois would have him, over and above being the bully which all men would have him; but if so, even a worm will turn; and so did the Abbot: he drew sword from thigh, got well under his shield, his left foot forward, and struck one blow for his life, and at the right place,--his foe’s bare knee. But he had to do with a warier man than himself. There was a quick jerk of the rein; the horse swerved round, right upon him, and knocked him head over heels; while his blow went into empty air. “Yield or die!” cried the knight, leaping from his horse, and kneeling on his head. “I am a man of God, an abbot, churchman, Thorold.” “Man of all the devils!” and the knight lugged him up, and bound his arms behind him with the abbot’s own belt. “Ahoi! Here! I have caught a fish. I have got the Golden Borough in my purse!” roared he. “How much has St. Peter gained since we borrowed of him last, Abbot? He will have to pay out the silver pennies bonnily, if he wishes to get back thee.” “Blaspheme not, godless barbarian!” Whereat the knight kicked him. “And you have Thorold the scoundrel, Winter?” cried Hereward, galloping up. “And we have three or four more dainty French knights, and a viscount of I know not where among them. This is a good day’s work. Now for Ivo and his tail.” And the Abbot, with four or five more prisoners, were hoisted on to their own horses, tied firmly, and led away into the forest path. “Do not leave a wounded man to die,” cried a knight who lay on the lawn. “Never we. I will come back and put you out of your pain,” quoth some one. “Siward! Siward Le Blanc! Are you in this meinie?” cried the knight in French. “That am I. Who calls?” “For God’s sake save him!” cried Thorold. “He is my own nephew, and I will pay--” “You will need all your money for yourself,” said Siward the White, riding back. “Are you Sir Ascelin of Ghent?” “That am I, your host of old.”