“The barbarians drive us to the sea; the sea drives us back to the barbarians; between them we are exposed to two sorts of death; we are either slain or drowned.” (From the Britons’ appeal to Aëtius--Commander of the Roman armies 446 A.D.) Upon a cold, spring morning in the year of Our Lord 577, the closing scenes of a battle were being fought out on the western shore of Britain; in that part of the country then called Damnonia; on a stretch of low-lying land, between the two rivers--the Yeo and the Axe. On the winning side stood the Saxons with the whole breadth of vanquished Britain behind them--on the losing, the Britons with but a narrow strip of land between them and the sea; that narrow strip of flat sea-shore. There were women on both sides. Brawny-limbed, red-skinned Saxons with floating ruddy hair--fighting with a strength and valour worthy of the men beside them; as much at home in that scene of blood-shed as they were by their hearths making the trews and baking the bread of their lords and his ceorls. British ladies reared in the refinement and luxury that the Romans had made common in Britain; satin-skinned and white-handed, strangers to the lightest toil--now forced, in dire necessity, on the battle-field; but, once there, waging war with the spirit of their ancestress, Boadicea; smaller and slighter than their foes and untutored in the art of weapons, they were gifted with a natural dexterity and passion that enabled them, in this hour of need, to be of service to their lords and brothers. One, in particular, had been conspicuous in the long three days’ fight, on account of her activity and skill. A slight, dark woman, raven-haired and white-limbed, clad in robes of royal saffron-colour, flashing with gold and emeralds. Often by her side was a youth, who bore a strong likeness to her; and these two, woman and boy, commanded the retreating Britons. The boy was mounted on a beautiful Hibernian stallion, of a pure jet-black, and on the banners still drooping, here and there, overhead was the emblem of a Black Horse in opposition to the White Horse of the Saxons. No leader could have shown more courage and spirit than this youth. In this last agony of defeat his example still inspired his followers; he gave no sign of the almost mortal wounds with which his body was pierced; his garments were red with blood, and his horse was smeared with white, where the sweat had lathered into foam--but on that stricken field every valiant warrior showed battle stains, and every jaded steed was pale with foam. Strapped on the shoulder of the boy-leader was a small image of the Virgin, and in the ranks, behind him, were numerous emblems of the Christian Faith.