William was again horsed and using his mighty weapon with deadly effect.

Yet despite all his efforts the English line of defence remained
unbroken. That linked wall of shields stood intact. From behind it the
terrible battle-axes of Harold's men swung like flails, making crimson
gaps in the crowded ranks before them. Hours had passed in this
conflict. It began with day-dawn; the day was waning, yet still the
English held their own; the fate of England hung in the scale; it began
to look as if Harold would win.

But Duke William was a man of resources. That wall of shields must be
rent asunder, or the battle was lost. If it could not be broken by
assault, it might by retreat. He bade the men around him to feign a
disorderly flight. The trick succeeded; many of the English leaped the
stockade and pursued their flying foes. The crafty duke waited until the
eager pursuers were scattered confusedly down the hill. Then, heading a
body of horse which he had kept in reserve, he rushed upon the
disordered mass, cutting them down in multitudes, strewing the hill-side
with English slain.

Through the abandoned works the duke led his knights, and gained the
central plateau. On the flanks the French and Bretons poured over the
stockade and drove back its poorly-armed defenders. It was
mid-afternoon, and the field already seemed won. Yet when the sunset
hour came on that red October day the battle still raged. Harold had
lost his works of defence, yet his huscarls stood stubbornly around him,
and with unyielding obstinacy fought for their standard and their king.
The spot on which they made their last fight was that marked afterwards
by the high altar of Battle Abbey.