The very first battle in which the invaders took part proved that the Irish could not hope to stand against them in the open. Forcing their way with Dermot into Ossory, through the woods and bogs, they found themselves deserted at a critical moment by almost all their native allies, who lost heart suddenly and fled. Maurice de Prendergast, one of their leaders, saw that the little English band was likely to be “rushed” by the natives, with whom the woods were swarming (“Que els lur curusent sure”). In accordance with the old Norman tactics, he detached his archers to form an ambush, and then spurred for the open field: the natives followed in hot pursuit, and their wily foes, reaching ground on which cavalry could act, turned and rode them down. The archers in their rear completed their discomfiture, like the English sharpshooters at Poitiers, and the native “friendlies,” with their beloved axes, were soon spread over the field, pleasantly engaged in decapitating the corpses of their fellow-countrymen. I see no reason to doubt the tale of king Dermot gloating over the heads that his followers brought and piled before him, and leaping for joy as with a loud voice he rendered thanks to his Creator on detecting among them the face of a specially hated foe. It may have been the thought of his own son, blinded by his kingly rival, that made him, we read, clutch the head and gnaw the features with his teeth. Such a ‘deviation from humanity’ (to quote a famous phrase) will not seem incredible to those who have seen his countrymen, centuries later in the history of civilization, burn alive a woman as a witch,[352] deliberately mutilate defenceless men, or dance in the very blood of the murdered Lord Mountmorres.