With a shout that rang like a great trumpet, our little Samson had his foot in a moment on the gunwale.  “Stick on lads, tight!” he cried, as with half a score of whom I was one, he landed on the pirate’s deck.  Three of them rushed at each of us, and well it was we had good hauberks and good blades, for “slash, slash” came down on us the strokes from either hand.  But swift in our tail came a score more of our Normans, some of the readiest and stoutest of Samson’s own men that followed his standard, and like lions zealous for his honour, and eagles careful for his life, they fought their way to their little leader’s side, who was well-nigh bested, contending with three or more, who knew his place and station and attacked him at all points.  But the rush of the boarding party swept all our foes before us, and in a short space the remnant of them, now far below our numbers, collected by the stern of the ship in a thick mass.  It was no light matter to dislodge them, thrice we essayed it, and thrice from their sharp blades we recoiled.  And, indeed, I could not but honour these men now engaged so hopelessly in their last conflict, and never crying out for quarter—­nay, even stricken down on the deck still crawling with bent and broken sword, to slash once more at us, if it were but at our hose of mail.

In the hot fray we recked not of our moorings, and we saw already we had lost hold of Le Saint Michel and drifted some yards astern, and a great shock of the ship showed us we were broadside on with another of their ships, L’Aiglon.  Now we were soon involved in sore danger, for the pirates on board this latter, lost no time in coming up to their friends’ assistance, and like a crew of black kites they swept over the side, with curved cutlasses brandished in their hands.  I know not how it would have chanced had not La Blanche Nef boarded their ship, and attacking them in the rear, swept through them to our relief.  So they were between two attacks, and enough of us were left to engage in our last deadly hand-to-hand struggle with the pirates in the stern.  I followed a great Norman soldier that led this last attack, and closing with a sinewy Moor that strove cunningly to slap my sword from my grasp with an upsweep, we were ere long rolling on the deck amid the dead and the slippery streams of blood, each guarding the other’s sword-hand from his breast; and since the Moor was a strong villain of full man’s strength, I was in evil case.  For with me, thus striving on the deck, the swing and rush of my youthful strength availed me naught against his tempered muscles, that seemed pressing my arms back with a grasp of iron.  Yea, I was as near cold steel in my heart as ever in my life, when suddenly I felt his grasp tighten and then grow loose, and a sharp blade that had already been run through his back, came out below the breast-bone, and gave my arm a graze that drew blood.

“God, save you, good lad!” rang out Samson’s voice, and I knew that he had found time in his control of the whole battle to think of me—­and in good season, for I have small doubt that, though the point of his sword grazed my arm, yet it saved my life.