The same moment, and before De Chatillon had time to seize his sword again, Adolf sprang over the heap of slain, and dealt the French knight so terrible a blow on the head that his cheek, and the part of the helmet which covered it, were severed, and fell to the ground. The blood streamed from his wound; still he persisted in defending himself; but two mighty blows from Adolf's sword hurled him from his saddle under the hoofs of the horses. Some Flemings drew him out; and having carried him to the rear, hewed him in pieces, taunting him the while with his merciless ferocity.
While this conflict was pending, Arnold van Oudenarde had come to the succor of the left wing, and changed the fate of the battle. The men of Furnes, thus encouraged, returned with them; and soon the French were thrown into hopeless disorder. Men and horses fell in such numbers, and the confusion of the foe was so great, that the Flemings deemed the battle won, and from the whole line poured forth a loud and exulting shout:
"Victory! Victory! Flanders! the Lion! Whoso is French is false! strike all dead!" And over all the battle-field raged the Butchers, their arms, their bosoms, and their axes smeared with gore, their hair streaming wildly, their features rendered undiscernible by mire and blood and sweat, yet fixed in a grim expression of bitterest hatred of the French and intense enjoyment of the conflict.
While the first division of the French army was thus defeated and destroyed, the Seneschal d'Artois stood with the second division at a distance from the Flemish camp. As the front of the enemy was not extensive enough to admit of a simultaneous attack with his whole army, he had not thought it necessary to advance. He knew nothing of the fortunes of the battle, but concluded that his troops were certainly victorious; for otherwise, he thought, some of them would have retreated. In the meantime he sent Messire Louis de Clermont with four thousand Norman cavalry through the Neerlander wood, to take the left wing of the Flemings in flank. De Clermont had the good fortune to find firm ground on this side; he crossed the brook without losing a man, and fell suddenly on the division of Guy. Attacked in the rear by fresh troops, while they were scarcely able to keep De Chatillon's men in check, they found it impossible to offer any resistance. The first ranks were broken, and cut to pieces; the others were thrown into confusion, and all this part of the Flemish army gave way and retreated. The voice of the youthful Guy, conjuring them by the memory of their fatherland to stand firm, inspired them with courage enough; but this was of no avail; the violence of the attack was too great; and all that they could do, in answer to their general's appeal, was to make their retreat as slow and orderly as possible.
At this moment Guy received so violent a blow on his helmet that he fell forward on the neck of his horse, and his sword dropped from his hand.
In this position, stunned and giddy, he could no longer defend himself; and would certainly have perished had not Adolf come to his rescue. The young knight sprang in front of Guy, and wielded his sword so skilfully and so valiantly that the Frenchmen were effectually prevented from striking at the Count. In a short time his arm waxed weak and weary in this desperate conflict; his blows became ever slower and weaker; the countless strokes that fell on his coat of mail made him feel his whole body bruised and swollen, and he was already on the point of taking a last farewell of the world; for he seemed to see death beckoning to him in the distance. In the meantime Guy had been carried behind the line of battle, and had recovered from his swoon. He now looked with anguish on the perilous position of his deliverer; and seizing another sword, he was in a moment at his side, and fighting with renewed vigor. Many of the most valiant of the Flemings had hastened after him; and the French would have been compelled to retreat, had they not received fresh reenforcements by way of the Neerlander wood. The intrepidity of the Flemings could not avail to check the advance of the enemy. The cry, "Flanders! the Lion!" was answered by, "Noel! Noel! the victory is ours! death to the rebels!"
The Flemings wavered, broke their ranks, and were thrown into inextricable disorder. The marvelous efforts of Guy failed to prevent their retreat; for there were at least ten horsemen to one Fleming, and the horses either trampled them down or drove them back with an irresistible impetus. Half of them fled before the advancing foe; great numbers were slain, and the remainder were so scattered that they could offer no resistance to the horsemen, and were pursued to the Leye, where many of them were miserably drowned. On the banks of this river Guy rallied a few of his men; they fought with desperation, but their heroic valor was of no avail. Though each of them had slain three or four of the horsemen, the French
