From somewhere in the English centre rose a heavy, thudding sound which was new to war.  It came from the mouths of cannons now for the first time fired on a field of battle, and at the report of them the Genoese, frightened, fell back a little.  Seeing that the balls fell short and did but hop toward them slowly, they took courage again and began to loose their bolts.

“You’re right, master,” exclaimed Grey Dick in a fierce chuckle, “their strings are wet,” and he pointed to the quarrels that, like the cannon balls, struck short, some within fifty paces of those who shot them, so that no man was hurt.

Now came a swift command, and the English ranks rose to their feet, uncased their bows and strung them all as though with a single hand.  A second command and every bow was bent.  A third and with a noise that was half hiss and half moan, thousands of arrows leapt forward.  Forward they leapt, and swift and terrible they fell among the ranks of the advancing Genoese.  Yes, and ere ever one had found its billet, its quiver-mate was hastening on its path.  Then—­oh! the sunlight showed it all—­the Genoese rolled over by scores, their frail armour bitten through and through by the grey English arrows.  By scores that grew to hundreds, that grew till the poor, helpless men who were yet unhurt among them wailed out in their fear, and, after one short, hesitant moment, surged back upon the long lines of men-at-arms behind.

From these arose a great shout:  “Trahison!  Trahison!  Tuez!  Tuez!” Next instant the appalling sight was seen of the chivalry of France falling upon their friends, whose only crime was that their bow-strings were wet, and butchering them where they stood.  So awful and unexpected was this spectacle that for a little while the English archers, all except Grey Dick and a few others cast in the same iron mould, ceased to ply their bows and watched amazed.

The long shafts began to fly again, raining alike upon the slaughterers and the slaughtered.  A few minutes, five perhaps, and this terrible scene was over, for of the seven thousand Genoese but a tithe remained upon their feet, and the interminable French lines, clad in sparkling steel and waving lance and sword, charged down upon the little English band.

“Now for the feast!” screamed Grey Dick.  “That was but a snack to sharp the appetite,” and as he said the words a gorgeous knight died with his arrow through the heart.

It came, the charge came.  Nothing could stop it.  Down went man and horse, line upon line of them swept to death by the pitiless English arrows, but still more rushed on.  They fell in the pits that had been dug; they died beneath the shafts and the hoofs of those that followed, but still they struggled on, shouting:  “Philip and St. Denis!” and waving their golden banner, the Oriflamme of France.