The Mamelukes also turned to fly.  To right, to left, the mad horsemen drove—­the black, the plumed, the Nubians in yellow, the Turcomans with spotted skins over their mail, the men of Syria, knighthood of Egypt—­trampling underfoot their own kind.  But the steel chain held most of these; the knights had bound horse to horse:  wide on the left the Templars and Hospitallers fanned out and swept all stragglers into the net.  So within hoops of iron, as it were, the slaughter began, silent, breathless, wet work.  Here James d’Avesnes was killed, a good knight; and here Des Barres went down in a huddle of black men, and had infallibly perished but that King Richard himself with his axe dug him out.  ‘Your pardon, King of the World,’ sobbed Des Barres, kissing his enemy’s knee.  ‘Pooh,’ says Richard, ’we are all kings here.  Take my sword and get crowns’; and so he turned again into battle, and Des Barres pressed after him.  That was the beginning of a firm friendship between the two.  Des Barres eschewed the counsels of Saint-Pol from that day.

But there was treachery still awake and about.  When the rout was begun Richard reined up for a minute, to breathe his horse and watch the way of the field.  He sat apart from his friends, seeing the lines ride by.  All in a moment inexplicably, as when in a race of the tide comes a sudden thwart gust of wind and changes the face of the day, there was a scurry, a babble of voices, the stampede of men fighting to kill:  the Turks with Christians on their backs came trampling, struggling together.  A sword glinted close to Richard—­’Death to the Angevin devil!’ he heard, and turning received in mid shield De Gurdun’s sword.  At the same moment a knight ran full tilt into the assailant, knocked him off his horse, and himself reeled, powerless to strike.  This was Des Barres, paying his debts.  The King smiled grimly to see the wholesome treachery, and Gurdun’s dismay at it.  ‘Gilles, Gilles,’ says he, ’be sure you get me alone in the world when next you strike at my back.  Now get you up, Norman, and fight a flying enemy, if you please.  I will await your return.’  De Gurdun saluted, but avoided his lord’s face, and rode after the Turks.  Des Barres stood, deep-breathing, by the King.

‘Will he come back, sire?’ asked the French knight.

‘Not he,’ said Richard; ‘he is ashamed of himself.’  He added, ’That is a very honest man, to whom I have done a wrong.  But listen to this, Des Barres; if I had not wronged him, I was so placed that I should have injured a most holy innocent soul.  Let be.  I shall meet De Gurdun again.  He may have me yet if he do not tire.’

He had been speaking as if to himself so far, but now turned his hawk-eyes upon Des Barres.  ‘Tell me now,’ he said, ’who gave the order to the rear to charge, against my order?’

‘Sire,’ replied Des Barres, ‘it was the Duke of Burgundy.’

‘You do not understand me,’ said Richard.  ’It came through the Duke of Burgundy’s windpipe.  But who put it into his thick head?’