CHAPTER LII
DEFIANT TILL DEATH
The Count de Perche found himself in a woeful plight. He was on foot,for his charger had been killed under him, and he was almost alone inthe midst of the foes whom he had ever treated with such contempt. Hisfriends and allies had fled or yielded, but he neither thought of flyingnor yielding. At that moment, life, as life, had no charms for him; but,unfortunately, the prospect of death was bitter and horrible; for being,like his lord, an excommunicated man, he knew that he was not evenentitled to Christian burial.
De Perche’s proud soul was wrung with bitter agony, and as his enemiesslowly advanced he groaned aloud and uttered a sharp cry, the groan andcry of a superlatively proud warrior in extreme mental anguish. Scarcelyknowing what he did in his perplexity, the count retreated slowly to thechurchyard of the cathedral, and, setting his back against a wall, heshouted defiance at his assailants as they came resolutely on.
De Perche’s foes formed themselves in front of him in a semi-circle, andthe Earl of Pembroke, who could not but admire the count’s dauntlessbearing in the hour of defeat and despair, invited him to surrender.
“Yield, sir count,” said the earl in accents which he meant to bepersuasive. “You have done all that a brave man could. Therefore yieldand live. Life has its sweets.”
“No; not with glory gone,” replied De Perche with energy. “Never shallit be told in Christendom, to my dispraise, that sweet France fell intocontempt through me. Let those yield who love life better than honour.Never by me shall such evil example be set. But before I die I will sellmyself dear.”
“Yield, yield!” cried Pembroke, and Salisbury, and others of theEnglish, impatiently. “Yield, sir count.”
“Never!” exclaimed De Perche, irritated by the impatience of their tone.“By the bones of St. John the Baptist, never shall any but liars have itin their power to tell that I yielded to a pack of tailed English, whoare traitors to their lawful sovereign, Lord Louis.”
The victors, who stood before De Perche in a semi-circle, stillhesitated; for, in spite of the count’s insulting language, the couragehe displayed in the presence of such manifest peril excited theiradmiration. But one English knight lost temper and sprang forward.
“By the mass,” exclaimed he, setting his teeth on edge, “such pride andpetulance merit sharp punishment: and if this scornful Frank will notyield to Englishmen, he must die by an Englishman’s hand.”
A keen combat ensued, but it was brief as keen. The knight aimed a blowat De Perche; the count warded off the blow, and returned it with suchforce that sparks of fire flew from the knight’s helmet, and he wasalmost beaten to his knee. But quick as thought the English knightrecovered himself, and making a fierce thrust at De Perche’s eye,pierced him to the brain. Without uttering a word, the count rolledlifeless on the ground.
A brief silence succeeded De Perche’s fall; and as the victors stood ina circle, gazing on the lifeless body of their foe, who while living hadbeen so scornful, the silence was rudely interrupted by a shout ofvengeance. Breaking through the crowd, a young warrior burst wildly intothe circle, in a guise which made nobles and knights stare--his steelcap battered, his shield bruised with blows, his axe reeking with gore,his white jacket spotted red with that day’s carnage, his eyes flashingfire, his teeth grinding with rage, and the word “Revenge!” on histongue.
It was Oliver Icingla; and he came to execute the vengeance he had,weeks earlier, sworn to take on the head of the Count de Perche,whenever and wherever he might meet the man whom he regarded as hismother’s murderer.
“You are too late, Master Icingla,” said the Earl of Salisbury to hisformer squire and fellow-captive. “De Perche has fallen by the hand ofanother.”
“I grieve to hear it,” said Oliver.
“The noble count, pierced through brain and eye, has already gone to hisaccount.”
“So perish all England’s enemies!” exclaimed Oliver, glancing at thefallen Frenchman.
“But we war not with the dead,” said Salisbury, solemnly; “and in thehour of victory it grieves me to call to mind that the body of a warriorwho died so bravely cannot be laid in a Christian grave. But,” added theearl in a whisper, “may his soul be admitted within the gates ofParadise, and may it repose in holy flowers!”
“Amen,” added Oliver earnestly, as he crossed himself. “My lord, I doubtnot you are right. Death clears all scores; so they say, at least. And Itrust that his soul will be pardoned, and find repose in the regionswhither it has winged its flight.”
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