"Ah, Sir Edward Woodville, noble Captain, gentle knight, how thou wert head of all Christian knights, and now thou liest dead! Ever wast thou the pattern of all true knights. The courtliest wast thou, that ever bare shield, the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse. Ever wast thou the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights. The meekest and the gentlest that ever loved woman. The sternest to thy mortal foe that ever laid spear in rest. And now thou art dead! And I live. Ah, me. What dolour and grief is this; that I could not give my life for thy life! Ah, sinful man that I am. How shall I atone for my evil life? How dolorous hath been this day. And the departing out of this world of all this meynie of joyous and gentle men!" Ralph listened, as in a dream. The voices ceased, and the whirr of a night-jar hummed above the low wail of the deserted battle-field. The faint sound of inarticulate pain rose and sank on the gentle night breeze. The still air seemed to vibrate with pain. Presently a soft hand touched his brow. He looked round. A slight form was bending over him, and a gentle voice murmured,--"’Tis a friend; but speak no word, there is yet danger around." Ralph lay still, his senses had not yet recovered their usual vigour. He liked lying still, as the balmy night air of midsummer fanned his brow, watching the solemn stars blinking down, and the flitting bats as they flickered to and fro. He felt desperately thirsty, and turned his head to see if the mysterious figure were near. "Father!--father!--ah me, how dolorous is the time! Father, shall we not get hence? Alack! he heareth not! Father! the night grows damp, thy wounds will stiffen. Alack! alack! he heedeth not!" Again all was silent over that dismal scene. The heaps of dead men glinted in the starlight, and the night wind stirred the torn and tattered tabards till they rustled in the wind. Ralph began to recover his senses as the chill air of night fanned his forehead, but as he awoke to the reality of life, a numbing sense of bitter pain passed through his heart. Where were all his friends? Where were those gallant four hundred who had gone in all the pride of strength and joyous manhood to win fame, and name, and fortune in the sunny land of France? Where was Dicky Cheke? Alas, poor Dicky! Did he need no ransom now? Had his thoughts come true? Was the only ransom he would ever require the great ransom paid for all? There they lay, with solemn upturned faces, whiter than their white tabards, and signed with the ruddy sign of their "deare Lord." The solemn stars shone for their funeral torches, and the rustling leaves of the deep, still forest whispered a dirge for the silent dead. *CHAPTER XXVII.* *"OF THE CRAWLING TIDE."*