The lion of Flanders. Vol. I

until he himself received a wound on his left arm. At the sight of his own blood, he became as one possessed; with a hasty glance at the knight who had wounded him, he cast aside his ax, and stooping beneath the lance of his adversary, with headlong fury sprang upon the horse, and grappled body to body with the rider, who, firmly as he sat, could not resist the maddened force of Breydel, and, falling from the saddle, rolled with his assailant upon the ground. While the Dean of the Butchers was thus occupied in satiating his vengeance, his comrades and the other Guildsmen had fallen in a mass upon the main body of the Lilyards, and had already cast many of them under their feet. Obstinately was each inch of ground contested; men and horses, dead and dying, lay piled in heaps, and the pavement was red with blood.

Soon all effectual resistance on the part of the Lilyards was at an end; they were driven back into the market-place; and the Guildsmen being now at liberty to deploy, and avail themselves of their superior numbers, it became evident that their object was to surround their enemies, and that for this purpose they were extending their right wing toward the egg-market. Upon this the knights, seeing themselves defeated, turned their horses, and fled from the destruction that awaited them—the Butchers and Clothworkers following them with shouts of triumph, but without much effect; for, well mounted as they all were, they were soon beyond the reach of pursuit.

By this time the sound of the trumpets and the tumult of the battle had given the alarm throughout the city; all its inhabitants were in motion, and thousands of armed burghers filled the streets, hurrying to the aid of their brethren. The victory, however, was already won; the Lilyards had retreated to the castle, and were blockaded on every side by the Guildsmen.

While these things were proceeding In the market-place, the governor-general, De Chatillon, presented himself before the town with five hundred French men-at-arms. He had foreseen that he should find the gates closed, according to the old custom of the men of Bruges in such cases, and was therefore well provided for that event. His brother, Guy de St. Pol, was ordered to follow close upon him, with a numerous body of infantry, and all the engines necessary for storming the place. While waiting for this reenforcement, he was already planning his assault, and looking out for the weak points of the fortifications. Although he saw but few people upon the ramparts, he did not deem it expedient to make his attack with his men-at-arms alone, knowing as he did the indomitable spirit of the men of Bruges. Half an hour after his arrival, St. Pol with his division appeared in the distance, the points of their spears and the blades of their halberds glancing from afar in the sun's early rays, while an impenetrable cloud of dust indicated the progress of the machines, with the horses that drew them.

The small number of the citizens who were in charge of the walls watched the approach of their numerous assailants with fear and trembling. As they saw the heavy battering machines brought up, the hearts of all were filled with the saddest forebodings, and the unwelcome tidings speedily circulated throughout the whole city. The armed Guildsmen were still posted about the castle, where the intelligence of this new force disturbed them in their operations. Leaving, therefore, a sufficient detachment to continue the blockade of the Lilyards, the main body hastened to the walls to meet the danger that now threatened them in that quarter. It was not without deep anxiety for the fate of their beloved Bruges that they perceived the French soldiers already busily engaged in setting up their battering engines.

The besiegers carried on their operations for the present at a considerable distance from the walls, quite out of bow-shot, while De Chatillon with his men-at-arms covered the workmen against a sally from the town. Soon lofty movable towers, w4th drawbridges, by which to reach the walls, were seen rising within the French lines; battering-rams and catapults were also in readiness ; and everything portended sad woes to Bruges.

But, great as the danger was, no coward fear was visible on the countenances of the Guildsmen. Anxiously and closely they watched the foe; their hearts beat hard and fast, and their breath shortened, as first the hostile squadrons met their sight; but that was soon over. Their eyes still bent upon their enemies, they felt the blood flow more freely in their veins; a manly glow overspread their cheeks, and the heart of every citizen burned within him with the noble fire of heroic wrath.

One man there was that stood joyous even to mirth upon the rampart; his restless movements, and the smile which flitted over his countenance, spoke of impatient anticipation, and of a moment long looked for and at last found. Ever and anon his eye, for a moment, quitted the enemy to rest upon the pole-ax in his stalwart grasp, and then he would tenderly and fondly caress the deadly weapon with his hand—Jan Breydel knew not what fear was.

And now the Deans of all the different com panics surrounded Deconinck, and awaited in silence for his counsel—it might almost be said, his orders. He, after his manner, was in no haste to give his opinion, and gazed long in deep thought upon the French position, till the restless Breydel impatiently exclaimed:

"How now, Master Deconinck, what say you? Shall we make a sally and have at these French fellows where they are, or shall we let them come on, and pitch them into the ditch?"

Still the Dean of the Clothworkers made no answer; still he stood plunged in thought, his eye fixed upon the enemy's works, and scanning curiously the great engines of assault with which they were so