CHAPTER VII
Guy beheld the destruction of his troops, and deemed the battle lost. He could have wept aloud for anguish; but there was no room for grief in his manly heart—a moody rage had taken entire possession of it. In conformity with his oath, he desired to live no longer, and spurred his horse into the very thick of the exulting enemy. Adolf van Nieuwland and Arnold van Oudenarde kept close to his side; so desperate was their onset that the foe was appalled by their feats of valor, and the horsemen fell, on all sides, as if by magic, beneath their blows. Yet the Flemings were discomfited and almost all slain: the French continued their shouts of victory; for it seemed that nothing could extricate the remnant of Guy's division from their perilous position.
And now there appeared in the direction of Oudenarde, beyond the Gaver brook, an object that gleamed brightly between the trees; it drew rapidly near, and soon two horsemen might be distinguished in full career toward the field of battle. One was evidently a noble knight, as the magnificence of his armor attested. His coat-of-mail, and all the steel that enveloped both himself and his horse, were covered with gold, and shone with wonderful brilliancy. An enormous blue plume streamed behind him in the wind, the reins of his horse were covered with silver plates, and on his breast was a red cross, surmounted by the word "Flanders" flashing in silver letters from a black ground.
No knight in the field was so gorgeously arrayed as this unknown; but what excited most attention was his unusual stature. He was at least a head above the tallest of the knights; and he was so powerfully built, in body and in limbs, that he might well have been taken for a son of the race of giants. The horse he rode was of a size and strength proportioned to those of its rider. Large flakes of foam flew from the mouth of the noble beast, and his breath rolled in two dense clouds from his expanded nostrils. The knight carried no other weapon than a huge ax of steel, which contrasted strangely with the golden splendor of his armor.
The other horseman was a monk, very meanly attired; his mail and helmet were so rusty that they seemed streaked with red; this was Brother William van Saeftinge. In his monastery at Doest he had heard that at Courtrai the Flemings were in conflict with the French; he went at once to the stable, took thence two horses, exchanged one for the rust-eaten armor he wore, and spurred the other at his utmost speed toward the battle-field. He too was extraordinarily strong and brave; a long sword gleamed in his grasp, and the flash of his dark eye showed that he knew right well how to wield it. He had just fallen in with the wondrous unknown knight; and as both were bent on the same errand, they had continued their ride together.
The Flemings turned their eyes hopefully and joyfully toward the golden knight as he advanced in the distance. They could not distinguish the word "Flanders," and so knew not whether he was friend or foe; but in this their extremity they felt a hope that God had sent them one of His saints to deliver them. And everything combined to strengthen their hopes—the gorgeous armor—the extraordinary form and stature—the glowing red cross on the breast of the unknown. Guy and Adolf, who were fighting surrounded by foes, looked at each other with beaming joy—they had recognized the golden knight. It seemed to them as though they heard the death doom of the French, so absolute was their confidence in the prowess and skill of the new warrior. They exchanged a look which said:
"Oh, happy chancel there is the Lion of Flanders!"
At length the golden knight came near; and before one could ask whom he came to aid, he fell with such impetuosity on the horsemen, and struck such fearful blows with his ax of steel, that the bewildered foe was smitten with a panic, and overthrew one another in their eagerness to escape from the dreaded strokes. Everything fell before his crushing ax—behind him he left a clear space, like the wake of a sailing ship on the waters; and thus, carrying death before him, he reached with marvelous rapidity the bands which were driven back upon the Leye, and cried:
''Flanders! the Lion! Follow me! Follow me!"
Repeating this cry, he hurled a number of Frenchmen into the marsh, and performed such prodigies of valor and strength that the Flemings looked on him with awe as a supernatural being.
And now the courage of the Flemings revived; with shouts of joy they rushed forward, and emulated the prowess of the golden knight. The French could no longer withstand the onset of the dauntless sons of the Lion: their front ranks gave way and fled; but they came in collision with those who were behind them, and the rout became general. A frightful slaughter began along the whole length of the line. The Flemings pushed on over heaps of slain. The cry, "Noel! Noel!" was no longer heard: "Flanders! the Lion!" alone resounded triumphantly from every part of the field.
Brother William, the monk, had dismounted, and was fighting on foot. He wielded his sword like a feather, and laughed to scorn every foe who dared to assail him. One would have thought he was playing at some amusing game, so joyous was he and so full of jests. At length he descried Messire Louis de Clermont with his banner at a little distance. “Flanders! the Lion!" shouted Brother William; "the banner is mine!" He fell on the ground like one dead, and crept on his hands and knees
