On he rode, acknowledging the cheering of his soldiers with smiles and courtly bows, till at length he pulled rein just in front of the triple line of archers, among whom were mingled some knights and men-at-arms, for the order of battle was not yet fully set.  Just then, on the plain beneath, riding from out the shelter of some trees and, as they thought, beyond the reach of arrows, appeared four splendid French knights, and with them a few squires.  There they halted, taking stock, it would seem, of the disposition of the English army.

“Who are those that wear such fine feathers?” asked the King.

“One is the Lord of Bazeilles,” answered a marshall.  “I can see the monk upon his crest, but the blazons of the others I cannot read.  They spy upon us, Sire; may we sally out and take them?”

“Nay,” answered Edward, “their horses are fresher than ours; let them go, for pray God we shall see them closer soon.”

So the French knights, having stared their full, turned and rode away slowly.  But one of their squires did otherwise.  Dismounting from his horse, which he left with another squire to hold, he ran forward a few paces to the crest of a little knoll.  Thence he made gestures of contempt and scorn toward the English army, as he did so shouting foul words, of which a few floated to them in the stillness.

“Now,” said Edward, “if I had an archer who could reach that varlet, I’ll swear that his name should not be forgotten in England.  But alas! it may not be, for none cam make an arrow fly true so far.”

Instantly Grey Dick stepped forward.

“Sire, may I try?” he asked, stringing his great black bow as he spoke.

“Who are you?” said the King, “who seem to have been rolled in ashes and wear my own gold arrow in your cap?  Ah!  I remember, the Suffolk man who showed us all how to shoot at Windsor, he who is called Grey Dick.  Yes, try, Grey Dick, try, if you think that you can reach so far.  Yet for the honour of St. George, man, do not miss, for all the host will see Fate riding on your shaft.”

For one moment Dick hesitated.  Such awful words seemed to shake even his iron nerve.

“I’ve seen you do as much, Dick,” said the quiet voice of Hugh de Cressi behind him.  “Still, judge you.”

Then Dick ground his heels into the turf and laid his weight against the bow.  While all men watched breathless, he drew it to an arc, he drew it till the string was level with his ear.  He loosed, then, slewing round, straightened himself and stared down at the earth.  As he said afterward, he feared to watch that arrow.

Away it sped while all men gazed.  High, high it flew, the sunlight glinting on its polished barb.  Down it came at length, and the King muttered “Short!” But while the word passed his lips that shaft seemed to recover itself, as though by magic, and again rushed on.  He of the foul words and gestures saw it coming, and turned to fly.  As he leapt forward the war arrow struck him full in the small of the back, just where the spine ends, severing it, so that he fell all of a heap like an ox beneath the axe, and lay a still and huddled shape.