The king, a head taller
than any of his men, fought in their front rank, his terrible two-handed
sword hewing down every man who opposed him. As the English gave way the
assault became more and more impetuous, and in a few minutes the English
broke and fled all along the line.
"All is lost, Osgod," Wulf said; as after fighting to the last he turned
his back on the foe. The scene on the ridge was now terrible; the exulting
Norsemen followed hard upon the flying English, uttering their shouts of
victory and cutting down all they overtook. Hampered by the crowd in front
of them great numbers of the English fell beneath the weapons of their
pursuers, others turned to the right or left, and hundreds were smothered
in the swamp by the river or in that on the other side. Once the flight
began, Osgod placed himself in front of his master, his powerful figure and
his weight enabling him to push his way through the crowd of fugitives.
Wulf kept close behind him, and they followed the edge of the swamp until
Wulf saw the faint indication of a path he had before noticed.
"Turn off here, Osgod; this is the place I spoke of. Let me go first, I am
lightest."
The ground shook beneath their feet, the slime oozed up to their ankles,
but, moderating their pace now, they sprang from tussock to tussock until
two or three hundred yards from the edge of the swamp. Then they paused and
looked round. The work of slaughter was still proceeding.
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