The lanes and hedges between Spein and Newbury had been the scenes of many a sanguinary tussle that morning, for nowhere had either army found room to deploy.  Some of them had been fought over more than once or twice.  But just before Richard came up, the tide had ebbed from that part of the way, for Essex’s men had had some advantage, and had driven the king’s men through the town and over the bridge, so that he found the road clear, save of wounded men and a few horses.  As he reached Spinhamland, and turned sharp to the right into the main street of Newbury, a bullet from the pistol of a royalist officer who lay wounded struck Beelzebub on the crest—­what of a crest he had—­and without injuring made him so furious that his rider had much ado to keep him from mischief.  For, at the very moment, they were met by a rush of parliament pikemen, retreating, as he could see, over their heads, from a few of the kings cavalry, who came at a sharp trot down the main street.  The pikemen had got into disorder pursuing some of the enemy who had divided and gone to the right and left up the two diverging streets, and when the cavalry appeared at the top of the main street, both parts, seeing themselves in danger of being surrounded, had retreated.  They were now putting the Kennet with its narrow bridge between them and the long-feathered cavaliers, in the hope of gaining time and fit ground for forming and presenting a bristled front.  In the midst of this confused mass of friends Richard found himself, the maddened Beelzebub every moment lashing out behind him when not rearing or biting.

Before him the bridge rose steep to its crown, contracting as it rose.  At its foot, where it widened to the street, stood a single horseman, shouting impatiently to the last of the pikemen, and spurring his horse while holding him.  As the last man cleared the bridge, he gave him rein, and with a bound and a scramble reached the apex, and stood—­within half a neck of the foremost of the cavalier troop.  A fierce combat instantly began between them.  The bridge was wide enough for two to have fought side by side, but the roundhead contrived so to work his antagonist, who was a younger but less capable and less powerful man, that no comrade could get up beside him for the to-and-fro shifting of his horse.

Meantime Richard had been making his slow way through the swarm of hurrying pikemen, doing what he could to keep them off Beelzebub.  The moment he was clear, he made a great bolt for the bridge, and the same moment perceived who the brave man was.

‘Hold on, sir,’ he shouted.  ’Hold your own, father!  Here I am!  Here is Richard!’