So the French must have fled before the terrible longbows of the English at Crecy and Poitiers, for, in fact, we were taking part in just such a mediaeval battle.
Oliver, who was watching intently, went to Japhet and whispered something in his ear.

He nodded and ran to seek the commander of the regiment.

Presently the result of that whisper became apparent, for the sides of the hollow square wheeled outward and the rear moved up to strengthen the centre.
Now the Mountaineers were ranged in a double or triple line, behind which were only about a dozen soldiers, who marched round Maqueda, holding their shields aloft in order to protect her from stray arrows.
With these, too, came our four selves, a number of camp-followers and others, carrying on their shields those of the regiment who were too badly wounded to walk.
Leaving the dead where they lay, we began to advance, pouring in volleys of arrows as we went.

Twice the Abati tried to charge us, and twice those dreadful arrows drove them back.

Then at the word of command, the Highlanders slung their bows upon their backs, drew their short swords, and in their turn charged.
Five minutes afterwards everything was over.