This sudden and appalling reply, even more than the sweep of the
gigantic sword, before which were riven sallet and mail as the
woodman's axe rives the fagot, created amongst the enemy that singular
panic, which in those ages often scattered numbers before the arm and
the name of one. They recoiled in confusion and dismay. Many
actually threw down their arms and fled. Through a path broad and
clear amidst the forest of pikes, Gloucester and the captains followed
the flashing track of the king, over the corpses, headless or
limbless, that he felled as he rode.

Meanwhile, with a truer chivalry, Hastings, taking advantage of the
sortie which confused and delayed the enemy, summoned such of the
loyal as were left in the fortress, advised them, as the only chance
of life, to affect submission to Warwick; but when the time came, to
remember their old allegiance, [Sharon Turner, vol. iii. 280.] and
promising that he would not desert them, save with life, till their
safety was pledged by the foe, reclosed his visor, and rode back to
the front of the bridge.

And now the king and his comrades had cut their way through all
barrier, but the enemy still wavered and lagged, till suddenly the cry
of "Robin of Redesdale!" was heard, and sword in hand, Hilyard,
followed by a troop of horse, dashed to the head of the besiegers,
and, learning the king's escape, rode off in pursuit. His brief
presence and sharp rebuke reanimated the falterers, and in a few
minutes they gained the bridge.

"Halt, sirs," cried Hastings; "I would offer capitulation to your
leader! Who is he?"