Count Charles himself was so closely pressed that a French man-at-arms laid his hand on him, saying, "Yield you, my lord; I know you well; let not yourself be slain." "A rescue!" cried Charles; "I'll not leave you, my friends, unless by death: I am here to live and die with you." He was wounded by a sword-thrust which entered his neck between his helmet and his breastplate, badly fastened.

Disorder set in on both sides, without either's being certain how things were, or being able to consider itself victorious.

Night came on; and French and Burgundians encamped before Montlhery.

The Count of Charolais sat down on two heaps of straw, and had his wound dressed.

Around him were the stripped corpses of the slain.