The orders of their
commander were now impossible to follow. It was a fierce melee, where
each fought for himself.
"Face round!" Oswald shouted. "Now, men, lay about you.
"A Percy! A Percy!"
The active little horses swung round instantly, and faced the crowd
surging up against them. This was the style of fighting to which the
border men were accustomed. Active as the Welsh were, the border ponies
were as quick in their movements, wheeling and turning hither and
thither, but keeping ever within a short distance of each other. The
troopers hewed down the foe with their heavy swords; and, being partly
protected by their armour, they possessed a great advantage over their
opponents.
Oswald and his uncle fought slightly in advance of the others, lending
a helping hand to each other, when the pressure was greatest. On one
occasion a Welshman seized Alwyn's leg, while he was engaged with a
foeman on the other side, and strove to throw him from his horse.
Oswald wheeled his pony, and with a sweeping blow rid his uncle of his
foe; but, at the same moment, a man leapt up behind him, while two
others assailed him in front.
The Welshman's sinewy arms prevented him from again raising his sword,
and he would have been slain by those in front, had he not, at the
moment, slipped his right foot from his stirrup and thrown himself from
his horse, his leg sweeping off the man who held him behind, and hurled
him to the ground beneath him.
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