“Follow me, Paul! yonder lies the foe.  I will strike a blow for my father’s liberty and crown this day, whether I live or die.”

The way was open now, and Paul saw plainly that they were close to the ranks of the foe.  But there was no drawing back, even had he wished it; his blood was up now, and not even fear for the possible peril of the prince could withhold him from the charge.  He knew not whether the person of the prince was known, and whether young Edward ran any especial danger in thus flinging himself upon the enemy.  But it was no longer his place to think—­the moment for action had arrived; and following Edward’s example, he dashed into the thick of the fray, the impetuosity and fury of his charge bearing down all before him, and hewing down man and horse as he clave a passage through the ranks for the prince, who closely followed.

They were not alone.  A gallant little company was following in their track, and with cries of “An Edward, an Edward, a Prince of Wales!” smote down the rival warriors with a fury which for the moment nothing could withstand.  There is surely something magnetic in a war cry or in a patriotic song, for it inspires those who use it with an ardour and a strength which for the moment seem invincible.

To Paul and the prince it seemed as if the day were all but won.  Wherever they turned they dealt death and destruction.  The wing of the army upon which they charged was wavering and disorganized; the infantry recoiled before the fierce charge of the horsemen, and the opposing cavalry was mostly in another part of the field.

“Victory, victory!” shouted those about Paul and the prince; and to the enthusiastic and excited lads it seemed as if the day was already theirs.  The name of the Prince of Wales was in all mouths.  It was shouted by each soldier as he fell upon his foe, and the enemy appeared to recoil before it.  Onward and ever onward pressed the eager little band, until it was entirely separated from the main body of the army; and so certain were all who took part in that isolated skirmish that the fortunes of the day were with the House of Lancaster, that the peril of their position struck none of the prince’s followers till, thinned by the blows of their adversaries, and weary with the impetuosity of their own charge, they paused and drew together; whilst the foe, glad of a moment’s breathing space, did not molest them.

There are pauses even on the battlefield when a few words can be exchanged, and the prince, flushed with the foretaste (as it seemed to him) of a glorious victory, turned to Paul with kindling eyes.

“War is a glorious game in all truth, Paul.  I would not have been elsewhere for all the world.  But you bleed—­you are wounded.  Tell me where.  I knew not that you were hurt.  You must ride back to the town and be tended there.”

“Nay, it is nought; I do not even feel it.  I know not who struck me, nor when.  I will bind this scarf about my arm, and all will be well.  And think you not, my liege, that it were well to return to the lines ourselves?  I promised your royal mother and the Lady Anne that you should not adventure yourself too much today within the enemy’s lines.  But all such charge passed from my memory in the heat of the fight.”