The long summer's day was mingling with night when the Karls went down into the French camp, and before any one was aware of their presence they were in the midst of the barons, who, 'without armour and arrayed in gorgeous apparel, were going from tent to tent to gossip together of the day's doings.'[29] Presently a knight, one Rénaud of Loire, came forth to upbraid them for thus 'presuming to disturb the privacy of gentlemen.' He had taken the intruders for a company of his own troops returning late to camp. In less than the twinkling of an eye Rénaud was a dead man. Some of his comrades had essayed to defend him, but they shared his fate, and the Flemings marched on, not far now from the object of their quest--the royal pavilion. Philippe, like his knights, had lately dined, and now, replete with rich dishes and strong drink, he was dozing in his tent. Suddenly his chaplain plucked his sleeve. 'Mark ye, sir,' he whispered, as he peeped through the curtains, 'the Flemings are upon us.' 'A monk's nightmare,' muttered Philippe, and he was turning again to sleep when Miles of Noyers rushed in and confirmed the chaplain's fears. In a moment Philippe had buckled on his mail, and almost alone, for the greater number of his attendants had fled, went out to face the foe. The first man he met was Zannekin. His battle-axe was raised to strike, and in another moment it would have split open the King's skull had not Miles dexterously drawn Philippe aside. Then the tide of fortune turned, and soon all that was left of the Saxon host were three great heaps of corpses. Zannekin was the last to fall, 'and his death cry was mingled with the voices of the royal chaplains intoning the antiphon of St. Denis.' Of the sixteen thousand Flemings slain not one had attempted flight, not one of them had budged an inch. Each man fell where he had stood at the beginning of the conflict. If courage could have given the Karls victory, the day would have been theirs, but so great were the odds against them, that from the first they had but one ground for hope--that panic inspired by the suddenness of their coming would fight for them. On this poor chance Zannekin had ventured his all, and he paid the price of his temerity. If the townsmen of Flanders had been made of the stuff of their country cousins disaster might have yet been averted, but these latter were full-blooded Saxons, and in all the cities, save haply Furnes, the burghers' power of resistance was in some measure rendered nugatory by their grandams' Celtic nerves.