"
So they left the body of poor Eadwin where it had fallen, and being
now spent with hunger, they poured the soup into basins and ate it
greedily.
Suddenly the door was burst open, the room was filled with their
foes--uplifted weapons, deadly blows, cries, curses in English and
French--in short, such a melee ensued that it passes all our power
to describe it. The fire was kicked over the place--blood hissed as
it ran over the floor and met the hot embers--the torches were
speedily extinguished or converted into weapons--men rolled over
and over in deadly strife, seeking where to plant the dagger or
knife--they throttled each other, or dashed hostile heads against
the floor--they tore the hair or beard as they struck beneath, not
with the fist, but the knife--on rolled the strife--the very
building shook--till there was a sudden lull, and in a few more
minutes it was peace.
A dozen Englishmen stood upright amidst prostrate corpses, many
streaming with blood; while many bodies lay on the floor, eight of
which were discovered, when the lights were rekindled, to be
Normans.
Only one Norman yet lived, and he was wounded--it was Pierre.
The young Breton lay on the ground, grievously wounded in several
places, yet not mortally--and fully conscious--when he heard an
eager voice inquire in a tone of authority:
"What is the meaning of all this? How did they cross the morass?
Are many of our people hurt?"
He looked up; the voice startled him.
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