They fought body to body, those assailing,
these defending. Mighty blows with the sword were given and received
among them. Many a champion lay stark upon the ground, and the living
passed over the bodies of the dead. Shields were hewn asunder; spears
snapped like reeds; the wounded were trampled beneath men's feet, and
many a warrior died that day. The Christians called on Christ, and
the heathen answered, clamouring on their gods of clay. Like men the
pagans bore them, but the Christians like heroes. The companies of
the heathen flinched, giving ground on the field. The Britons
pressed about them, redoubling their blows, so that the Saxons were
discomfited, and turning their backs, strove no more.
When Hengist saw his champions turn their backs, like children, to
the stroke, he fled to the town called Caerconan,[1] where he was
persuaded of shelter. The king followed fast after him, crying to the
hunters, "On, on." Hengist heard the noise of the pursuit, and had no
care to be trapped in his castle. Better to fight in the open at the
risk of his body, than to starve behind walls, with none to bring
succour. Hengist checked the rout, and rallying the host, set it again
in order of battle. The combat was passing sharp and grievous, for the
pagans advanced once more in rank and by companies.
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