Those who, by swiftness of eye, escaped this fate, sprung at
the horses like wildcats, clinging to the saddles, while they strove to
bury their knives in the riders' bodies.
Their back pieces now served the troopers in good stead, as did their
superior personal strength. Some beat their assailants down on to the
pommel of their saddles, and throttled or stabbed them; while in many
cases, where they were hard pressed, the sword of a comrade rid them
from their foes.
So the line held on its way, until they reached the head of the body of
fugitives. Then in obedience to the shout of Sir John Burgon they
turned, broke up into small bodies, and scoured the plain, cutting down
the flying foe; and did not draw bridle, until what remained of the
enemy had gained the shelter of the wood. Then, at the sound of their
leader's trumpet, they gathered around him in the centre of the plain.
Two or three had fallen from the Welsh arrows, and not a few had
received ugly slashes from their knives; but, with these exceptions,
all had come scatheless through the fray. At least two hundred dead
Welshmen were scattered on the plain.
"You have done your work well, men," Sir John said, "and taught them a
lesson that they will not forget.
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