So the night rolls down, and the English few betake themselves to prayers; while in the French camp the knights are revelling and feasting and dicing for the ransoms of the captives they hope to take on the morrow. The morning sun sees the English army drawn up in a field of freshly-sown corn, face to face with the French host, that stretches across the plain by the hamlet of Agincourt. Every archer carries a five-foot stake as a protection against cavalry; every man of them is stripped to the waist, and has one shoe off, the better to keep firm footing on the slippery ground. And now the gallant king, in full armour, with a jewelled crown glittering on his helmet, rides along the ranks. He prays aloud for victory, and turning to his men bids them fight boldly, for God is on their side. England, he declares, shall never pay ransom for him; he will conquer, or leave his bones on the field. Then he reminds his archers that their foes have sworn to put out the right eye and cut off the left hand of every bowman whom they capture, so that he shall never loose arrow again. A momentary hush falls on the English as they kneel to commend their souls to high heaven. Then their lips tighten, their thews and sinews become steel, and their hearts bound in expectation of the fray. “What time is it?” asks the king. “The bells are ringing prime, my lord,” is the reply. “Now is good time,” says he; “England prayeth for us, so let us be of good cheer. Banners advance!” With a loud shout the English bowmen advance twenty paces, and firmly plant their stakes to form a formidable palisade. On come the heavy-armed cavalry of the enemy in dense masses, thirty deep. The archers step forward a few yards, and slowly and steadily begin to shoot. Not an arrow is wasted; every shaft flies home. To stand still on the French side is to be shot down like a dog; to turn back is impossible with the huge press of soldiery behind. So, as the death-hail falls, the French men-at-arms spur their heavy chargers through the mire of the freshly-ploughed field. The deadly arrows never cease to fall, and down go horse and man until they lie in ghastly heaps two spears high. The French army is a helpless, heaving mass. “Now’s the day and now’s the hour” for the English archers. They sling their bows on their backs, they leap forward, and throwing themselves on the struggling heaps ply sword and mace, axe and bill, with almost superhuman strength. The living fall on the dead, the dead on the living, and the English climb the horrible, writhing mounds and hew and hack at the high-born French knights. King Harry is in the thickest press. Certain French knights swear to take or slay the English king. They hew their way to him; a shrewd blow slices the crown from his helmet, but it is the last blow ever struck by that arm.