and mounted to strike for King Henry; not, perhaps, without some presentiment of filling a warrior's grave. But death by a mean hand the lordly warrior would not contemplate; and with a spirit as high as his progenitor, who fought at Acre with Richard _Coeur de Lion_, he could hardly dream of falling by a weapon less renowned than Warwick's axe, or Edward's lance, or the sword of William Hastings, who, in the young king's track, slaughtering as he rode, was winning golden spurs and broad baronies. No death so distinguished, however, awaited Lord Dacre of the North. While in a large field, known as the North Acre, and still in rustic tradition and rhyme associated with his name, the haughty Borderer, probably making a last effort to rally the beaten and retreating Lancastrians, was mortally wounded with an arrow shot by a boy out of an auberry-tree, and prostrated among dead and dying on the miry ground. "All is lost," groaned Exeter and Somerset, in bitter mood, as together they spurred over mounds of slain, and galloped toward York, to warn the queen that her foes were conquerors. And well, indeed, might the Lancastrian dukes express themselves in accents of despair, for never before had an English army been in a more hapless plight than that which they were now leaving to its fate. At first, the retreat of the Lancastrians was conducted with some degree of order; but, ere long, their ranks were broken by the pursuing foe, and every thing was confusion as they fled in a mass toward Tadcaster. No leader of mark remained to direct or control the ill-fated army in the hour of disaster. John Heron, and Leo, Lord Welles, were slain. Andrew Trollope, after having "done marvelous deeds of valor," lay cold on the ground; Northumberland stooped his lofty crest as low as death; Devon and Wiltshire were heading the flight, and in vain endeavoring to place themselves beyond the vengeance of the victors. Resistance was hopeless; quarter was neither asked nor given; the carnage was so frightful that the road to York was literally red with the blood and strewn with the bodies of the slain; and the pursuit was so hot and eager that multitudes were drowned in attempting to cross the rivulet of Cock, while the corpses formed a bridge over which the pursuers passed. The brook ran purple with blood, and crimsoned, as it formed a junction with, the waters of the Wharfe. Evening closed, at length, over the field of Towton, but without putting an end to the work of destruction. Till the noon of Monday the pursuit was keenly urged, and a running fight, kept up beyond the Tyne, caused much bloodshed.[7] The Chief Justice of England and the Parson of Blokesworth escaped. But Devon and Wiltshire were less fortunate. One was taken near York, the other seized near Cockermouth by an esquire named Richard Salkeld; and both were executed by martial law.