The impatient Switzers loudly protested against this delay, the more so as a heavy rain had been falling for some time. But the solemn ceremonies were not to be curtailed, nor was Duke René, the new knight, sparing in conferring the coveted honor. Many an honest fellow, indeed, without the necessary means to maintain his dignities, was forced to submit to the stroke of knighthood. It came to an end at last, however, and the handsome young prince remounted and rode slowly back to join his friends, followed by the admiring gaze of the Swiss. “’Tis a pity,” they declared, “the noble lord is not of German blood: we cannot understand a word of his French gabble.” The delay that had been so irksome to the Swiss proved to their advantage in the end, for the Burgundians, after getting drawn up for battle in the drenching rain six long hours, with no sign of the enemy’s approach, had been ordered to return to the camp, where they quickly laid aside arms and armor and dispersed in search of rest or refreshment. The jaded chargers were also divested of their trappings and fed; even the Duke himself, usually so vigilant, retired to his pavilion at some distance from the camp and seated himself with his officers at the board. Suddenly the Confederates issued from the forest which had concealed their approach and, halting once more, after the custom of their forefathers, knelt to invoke the aid of the God of Battles. An old gray-beard made the short prayer, all devoutly joining in the “Amen.” Just at that moment the sun broke through the clouds. “Heaven has heard our prayer!” shouted the leaders joyfully. “Comrades, be stanch and bold! Think of your wives, your children, and your sweethearts! Forward, Confederates!” They fling themselves furiously against the breastwork, but the enemy’s guns tear great gaps in their ranks, and arrow after arrow is sped with deadly aim by the English bowmen. Vainly the assailants strive to surmount or demolish the sharp palisades. The bannerman of Freiburg is struck down. Suddenly the sound of galloping hoofs approaches, and the powerful voice of Heinrich Vögeli is heard shouting encouragement to his wavering countrymen. Hailing his appearance with shouts of joy, they rally, and like a torrent the Swiss vanguard sweeps through a gap in the “hedge,” Vögeli at their head. Hans is forgotten; all eyes are fixed on the gallant soldier fighting so bravely in the foremost rank, as gun after gun is captured and turned against the enemy’s camp. On clatter the squadrons of Lombard cuirassiers, but the deadly fire of their own guns, and a furious assault from the Swiss foot soldiers, led by Vögeli, soon put them to rout.