The
chosen men of the northwest, some of half-British blood, crowned the
opposite hill, drawn up in front of their entrenchments, as if they
scorned any other defence than that supplied by their living valour.
They had borrowed their tactics from the Danes: deep and strong on all
sides, they seemed to oppose an impenetrable wall to the foe; they had
their shields to oppose to darts or arrows, their axes for the footmen,
their spears to form a hedge of steel no horse could surmount.
Even should they yield to the pressure, still all would not be lost;
their retreat was secured into the entrenchments, and there they might
well hope to detain the enemy until the whole population should rise
against the men of Wessex and their leader, and his cause become hopeless.
Steadily up the hill came the brave troops of Edwy, and from within
their ranks, as they ascended the slope, a shower of arrows was
discharged by the archers who accompanied them, under their protection;
but no return was yet made by the foe, until they were close at hand,
when a loud war cry burst from the hostile ranks, and a perfect shower
of darts and arrows rained upon the invaders.
Still they persevered, although they left a living, struggling line on
the bloody grass behind them--persevered, like men longing for the
close hand-to-hand encounter, longing to grasp their foes in deadly
grip. The shock arrived; and axe and sword were busy in reaping the
harvest of death.
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