Then that dusty cloud of men and horses drove, forward ever, out of our sight.
The sun was now red and sinking above the low wall of the western hills, and the air was thicker than it had been, and confused with a yellow light.

Despite the great multitude of men and women on the city walls, there came scarcely a sound of a voice to us across the wide river, so still they kept, and the archers in the boats beneath us were silent: nay, though the chamber wherein I lay was thronged with the people of the house pressing to see through the open casement, yet there was silence here, save when the father prayed.
A stronger wind rising out of the west now blew towards us with a sweet burden of scent from flowers and grass, fragrant upon our faces.

So we waited, our hearts beating with hope and fear.
Then I, whose eyes were keen, saw, blown usward from Margny, a cloud of flying dust, that in Scotland we call stour.

The dust rolled white along the causeway towards Compiegne, and then, alas! forth from it broke little knots of our men, foot-soldiers, all running for their lives.
Behind them came more of our men, and more, all running, and then mounted men-at-arms, spurring hard, and still more and more of these; and ever the footmen ran, till many riders and some runners had crossed the drawbridge, and were within the boulevard of the bridge.

There they stayed, sobbing and panting, and a few were bleeding.