Fierce was the fray that followed. The peasants fought like tigers, their leader like a lion. The English were broken, slaughtered, driven like sheep before the burly champion and his bold followers. Many were slain or sorely wounded. Numbers were taken, among them some of the English nobles. The remainder fled in a panic, not able to stand against that vigorous arm and deadly axe, and the fierce courage which the exploits of their leader gave to the peasants. The field was cleared and Longueil again saved. Big Ferre, overcome with heat and fatigue, sought his home at the end of the fight, and there drank such immoderate draughts of cold water that he was seized with a fever. He was put to bed, but would not part with his axe, "which was so heavy that a man of the usual strength could scarcely lift it from the ground with both hands." In this statement one would say that the worthy chronicler must have romanced a little. The news that their gigantic enemy was sick came to the ears of the English, and filled them with joy and hope. He was outside the walls of Longueil, and might be assailed in his bed. Twelve men-at-arms were chosen, their purpose being to creep up secretly upon the place, surround it, and kill the burly champion before aid could come to him. The plan was well laid, but it failed through the watchfulness of the sick man's wife. She saw the group of armed men before they could complete their dispositions, and hurried with the alarming news to the bedside of her husband. "The English are coming!" she cried. "I fear it is for you they are looking. What will you do?" Big Ferre answered by springing from bed, arming himself in all haste despite his sickness, seizing his axe, and leaving the house. Entering his little yard, he saw the foe closing covertly in on his small mansion, and shouted, angrily,-- "Ah, you scoundrels! you are coming to take me in my bed. You shall not get me there; come, take me here if you will." Setting his back against a wall, he defended himself with his usual strength and courage. The English attacked him in a body, but found it impossible to get inside the swing of that deadly axe. In a little while five of them lay wounded upon the ground, and the other seven had taken to flight. Big Ferre returned triumphantly to his bed; but, heated by his exertions, he drank again too freely of cold water. In consequence his fever returned, more violently than before. A few days afterwards the brave fellow, sinking under his sickness, went out of the world, conquered by water where steel had been of no avail. "All his comrades and his country wept for him bitterly, for, so long as he lived, the English would not have come nigh this place."