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Could the English bring their numbers, for the way
By upward steps presented from the fort
A narrow ascent, where one alone could meet
The war. Yet were they of their numbers proud,
Though useless numbers were in that strait path,
Save by assault unceasing to outlast
A single warrior, who at length must sink
Fatigued with slaughter, and by toil foredone
Succumb.
            There was amid the garrison
A gallant knight who at Verneuil had fought,
And good renown for feats of arms achieved
Had gain'd in that day's victory. For him
His countrymen made way, and he his lance
Thrust upward against Conrade, who perceived
The intent, and, as the weapon touch'd his shield,
Smote with his battle-axe the ashen shaft;
Then plucking from the shield the severed head,
He threw it back.^[1] With wary bend the foe
Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain
From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon flew:
Full on the corselet of a meaner man^[2]
It fell, and pierced him where the heaving lungs,
In vital play distended, to the heart
Roll back their brighten'd tide: from the deep wound
The red blood gush'd; prone on the steps he fell,
And in the strong, convulsive grasp of death
Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name
The soldier died; and yet he left behind
One who then never said her daily prayers
Of him forgetful; who to every tale
Of the distant war lending an eager ear.
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door
The wretched one shall sit, and with fix'd eye
Gaze on the path, where on his parting steps
Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know
Her husband dead, but cherishing a hope,
Whose falsehood inwardly she knows too well,
Feel life itself with that false hope decay;
And wake at night from miserable dreams
Of his return, and weeping o'er her babe,
Too surely think that soon that fatherless child
Must of its mother also be bereft.

Dropping his broken spear, the exasperate knight
Drew forth the sword, and up the steps advanced,
Like one who disregarded in his strength
The enemy's vantage, destined to abide
That rashness dearly. Conrade stood prepared,
Held forth his buckler, and his battle-axe
Uplifted. Where the buckler was beneath
Rounded, the falchion struck, a bootless blow
To pierce its plated folds; more forcefully
Full on his crested helm the battle-axe
Descended, driving in both crest and crown;
From the knight's eyes, at that death-stroke, the blood
Started; with blood the chambers of the brain
Were fill'd; his breastplate with convulsive throes
Heaved as he fell. Victorious, he the prize
At many a tournament had borne away
In mimic war; happy, if so content
With bloodless glory, he had never left
The mansion of his sires.
                          But terrified
The English stood, nor durst adventure now
Near that death-doing foe. Amid their host
Was one who well could from the stubborn yew
Send his sharp shafts; well skill'd in wood-craft he,
Even as the merry outlaws who their haunts
In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse
The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grass
The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun.
He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd
The feather'd dart; with force he drew the bow
Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string,
And swift and strong the well-fledged arrow flew,
It pierced the shield, and reach'd, but reach'd in vain,
The breastplate: while he fitted to the bow
A second arrow, Conrade raised his voice,
Shouting for timely succor to secure
The entrance he had gain'd. Nor was the call
Unheard, nor unobey'd; responsive shouts
Announced assistance nigh; the Orleanites
From St. Loup's captured fort along the wall
Sped to support him; cheering was the sound
Of their near footsteps to the chief; he drew
His falchion forth, and down the steps he went.
Then terror seized the English, for their foes
Press'd through the open portal, and the sword
Of Conrade was among them making way.
Not to the Trojans when their ships were lost
More dreadful the Rutilian hero seem'd,
Then hoping well to right himself in arms;
Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris
Rush'd the fierce king of Sarza, Rodomont,
Clad in his dragon mail.
                           Like some tall rock,
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves
Spend their vain force, unshaken Conrade stood,
When, drawing courage from despair, the foe
Renew'd the contest. Through the throng he hew'd
His way unhurt amid the arrowy shower,
Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast,
As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree
The autumnal whirlwind shakes. Nor did he pause
Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand
Seized on the massy bolts. These as he drew,
Full on his helm a weighty English sword
Descended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath,
When lo! the assailant gasping on the ground,
Cleft by the Maiden's falchion: she herself
To the foe opposing with her herald's aid,
For they alone, following the adventurous steps
Of Conrade, still kept pace as he advanced,
Shielded him while with eager hand he drew
The bolts: the gate turn'd slow; forth leapt the chief,
And shiver'd with his battle-axe the chains
That held on high the bridge: down fell the bridge
Rebounding; the victorious troops rush'd in;
And from their walls the Orleanites with shouts
And tears of joy beheld on Fort St. John
The lilies wave.
                  "On to Fort London! on!"
Cried Conrade; "Xaintrailles! while the day endures
Once more advance to certain victory!
Force ye the lists, and fill the moat, and bring
The battering-ram against their gates and walls

1. ???
2. ???