"No, if we are marked to die, we are enough for our country to lose. If we are to live, the fewer there are of us the greater share of honour. I do not covet gold or feasting, or fine garments, but honour I do covet. Wish not another man from England. I would not lose the honour of this fight by sharing it with more men than are here, and if any among our soldiers has no desire to fight, let him go. He shall have a passport and money to take him away. I should be ashamed to die in such a man's company. We need not wish for men from England. It is the men in England who will envy us when they hear of the great crown of honour and glory that we have won this day. This is Saint Crispin's day. Every man who fights on this day will remember it and be honoured to the last hour of his life. Crispin's day shall ne'er go by from this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered, We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile. And gentlemen in England now abed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day." Lord Salisbury came in as the king was saying this. "The French are in battle order," he said, "and ready to charge upon our men." "All things are ready," said the king quietly, "if our minds are ready." "Perish the man whose mind is backward now," said Westmoreland. "You wish no more for men from England then," said the king smiling. And Westmoreland, inspired with courage and confidence by the king's brave speech, answered--"I would to God, my king, that you and I alone without more help might fight this battle out to-day." "Why, now you have unwished five thousand men," said the king laughing, "and that pleases me more than to wish us one more. God be with you all." [Sidenote: A.D. 1415.] So they went into battle tired as they were. The brave English let loose such a shower of arrows that, as at Creçy, the white feathers of the arrows filled the air like snow, and the French fled before them. The Earl of Suffolk was wounded, and as he lay dying, the Duke of York, his great friend, wounded to death, dragged himself to Suffolk's side and took him by the beard and kissed his wounds, and cried aloud-- "Tarry, dear Cousin Suffolk, My soul shall keep thine company to heaven. Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast, As in this glorious and well-foughten field We kept together in our chivalry." [Illustration] Then he turned to the king's uncle, the Duke of Exeter, and took his hand and said: "Dear my lord, commend my service to my sovereign." Then he put his two arms round Suffolk's neck, and the two friends died together. But the battle was won.