And now a gallop. The ground between the two armies grew less every moment. Faster， faster. All swords out now， all shields up to the nose， all prayers said， all teeth clenched. Shasta was dreadfully frightened. But it suddenly came into his head， “If you funk this， you‘ll funk every battle all your life. Now or never.”
But when at last the two lines met he had really very littler idea of what happened. There was a frightful confusion and an appalling noise. His sword was knocked clean out of his hand pretty soon. And he’d got the reins tangled somehow. Then he found himself slipping. Then a spear came straight at him and as he ducked to avoid it he rolled right off his horse， bashed his left knuckles terribly against someone else‘s armour， and then.
But it is no use trying to describe the battle from Shasta’s point of view； he understood too little of the fight in general and even of his own part in it. The best way I can tell you what really happened is to take you some miles away to where the Hermit of the Southern March sat gazing into the smooth pool beneath the spreading tree， with Bree and Hwin and Aravis beside him.