The men of the Wight were now drawn up--the men-at-arms on the right, the infantry in the centre, and the mounted archers on the left. All were completely armed, and they had now become a thoroughly well-disciplined, splendid body of men, typical of the British army--"The best in the world, if only there were more of them." The Captain of the Wight, mounted on his black charger, armed like himself in full plate-armour, rode in front of the line, and glanced down it with martial pride. Only a few words he said, but they were fiery, knightly, encouraging words, such as a brave leader and chivalrous knight knew how to say. He told them of the compliment the Duke of Orleans was paying them in reinforcing them with seventeen hundred Breton foot all clad to look like Englishmen. He reminded them of Crecy, Poictiers, and Agincourt. He bid them think that the eyes of England, of France, and of their own dear island home were upon them; and he bid them fight as became the ancient valour of their name and race. Their quarrel was a just one, and their foe the natural enemy of their hearths and homes. "Men of Yaverland and Brading, remember Sir Theobold Russel, and how he died for you. Men of Newport, remember Deadman’s Lane and Neddie’s Hill. Men of Yarmouth and Newtown, remember your burning homes and ruined boroughs. Men of the Wight, you are here to show your manhood, your skill, and your hardihood; that Frenchmen may see and feel how vain are their vapourings, how keen are our swords. And here before you all, in the glorious light of that splendid sun, I draw my blade, vowing never more to sheath it till the victory is won, or my hand can hold it no more." As the Captain of the Wight spoke, his sword-blade flashed in the sun, while he held it aloft over his crested helm. A ringing cheer answered these stirring words, and Dicky Cheke murmured to Ralph,-- "In sooth, he is a hero, this Captain of ours, and I am sorry for the French. We won’t be too hard on them, Ralph. I sha’n’t ask for more than a couple of thousand crowns for my prisoners, unless I take the Sire de la Trimouille himself, and then, as it won’t do to spoil the market, I must make him pay a good round sum--perchance fifty thousand pistoles, or so; only I will let him off the last ten if he pays up well;" and Dicky Cheke became quite pensive as he thought how he would spend his money, and bumped against Sir John Trenchard, who had ridden down the line with the Captain to inspect the men. And now the Breton infantry marched up, all clad alike, and the eye of their commander kindled as he welcomed them to his battalion. "They are sturdy little fellows," said Dicky, surveying them with a critical air. "But they want beef; they haven’t got our breadth of chest and length of limb." "You atom, you imp, you," said Maurice Woodville, "when will you be done with your coxcombery? Why, they are all big enough to eat you, boots and all."