How different was the scene from the morning. Of all that gallant, gay, and careless army, no coherent mass remained. The dusty road was covered with piles of dead and dying men. Broken pikes, splintered lances, pools of blood lay all around. Here and there fainting men, sore stricken, leant upon the end of their halberds, or sank swooning to the ground. A weary group of English still held together, and repelled the relentless onslaught of the French; but they had no hope, and had nowhere to go. No quarter was offered or asked, and their only object was to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Ralph looked wearily round. Dicky Cheke had gone. Maurice, poor lad, could scarcely sit his horse. His head ached, and his pulses throbbed with the fearful heat of the day, and he had received a terrible blow from a bill across his thigh. The taces of his armour had saved his leg, but it had shorn away the upper part of his genouilliere, or knee-piece, and exposed the bone of the knee. Ralph himself was badly wounded on the left arm, but he could still wield his mace. His sword had been broken long ago, and he knew scarcely anything of the fight. His head swam, and he felt giddy and faint. The Captain of the Wight was also desperately wounded, and had raised his visor for more air. Tom o’ Kingston leant forward on his horse’s neck, and Sir John Trenchard reeled in his saddle. Master Meux had gone. No other knight or esquire remained. They could be seen, easily distinguished by their white surcoats and red crosses, lying still and motionless, either apart or amid a pile of their enemies. At this moment a fresh body of men-at-arms, among whom were two or three knights in very rich armour, rode back from the pursuit of the flying Bretons. "They give us no quarter: let us die in harness," said the Captain of the Wight. "Yonder are all that are left of our gallant fellows; let us go and die with them." No one answered. Ralph still thought of his promise. Although Yolande would never know it, he would save his lord from death, or die with him. But they were utterly weary with fighting. Their arms were stiff and nerveless. Ralph could form no thought, he only kept saying to himself, "I will do my duty, I will do my duty." "Now, gentlemen," said the Captain, in a voice still clear and resolute, although feeble from pain and weariness, "this is the last time we shall speak to each other on earth. My friends and comrades, do you pardon me for having brought you into such great misery? I humbly ask your forgiveness, and it sore repenteth me of the dolour I have caused." "My lord, say no more," said Sir John Trenchard: "may God assoil thee as freely as I do. ’Tis the lot of all men to die. We have done our duty, and shall do more yet before we go hence. Let us charge the enemy." [Illustration: THE LAST CHARGE AT ST. AUBIN.]