It was a glorious spectacle, that mighty host, arrayed in three long columns of attack, marching with slow and orderly precision against the palisaded trenches of the Saxons. The men-at-arms of the great counts of Boulogne and Ponthieu composed the first; the second being formed by the auxiliar bands of Brittany, Poitou, and Maine; and in the third, commanded by the duke in person--mounted on a superb Andalusian charger, wearing about his neck the reliquary on which his rival had sworn falsely, and accompanied by a young noble, Tunstan the White, bearing the banner of the pope--were marshalled all the flower and strength of Normandy. Scattered along the front of the advance were multitudes of archers, lightly equipped in quilted jerkins, with long yew bows, and arrows of an ell in length, mingled with crossbow-men with arbalasts of steel, and square, steel-headed quarrels. Steadily they advanced, and in good order; while, in their entrenched camp, guarded by palisades of oak morticed together in a long line of ponderous trellis-work, the Englishmen awaited their approach, drawn up around their standard, which--blazoned with the white dragon, long both the ensign and the war-cry of their race--was planted firmly in the earth, surrounded by the dense ranks of heavy infantry which formed the strength of their array. Just as the charge began, William rode out before the lines, and thus addressed his soldiery: “Turn your hearts wholly to the combat! set all upon the die, either to fall or conquer! For if we gain, we shall be rich and glorious. That which I gain, shall be your gain; that which I conquer, yours! If I shall win this land, ye shall possess it! Know, too, and well remember this, that not to claim my right have I come only, but to revenge--ay, to revenge our gentle nation on all the felonies, the perjuries, the treasons of the English!--the English, who, in profound peace, upon Saint Brice’s eve, ruthlessly slew the unarmed and defenceless Danes; who decimated the bold followers of Alfred, _my_ kinsman and _your_ countryman, and slew himself by shameless treachery! On, then, with God’s aid, Normans! on, for revenge and victory!” Then out dashed from the lines the boldest of his vavasours, the Norman Taillefer, singing aloud the famous song--well known through every province of proud France--the song of Charlemagne and Rollo--tossing aloft the while his long, two-handed war-sword, and catching it adroitly as it fell; while at each close of that proud, spirit-stirring chant, each warrior of that vast array thundered the burden of the song--“God aid! God aid!”