"By Saint Paul!" he cried, "it must indeed be so. I see their
russet jackets. They are English archers!"
As he spoke, the hindmost one, a strongly built, broad-shouldered
man, looked round and saw the gleaming figure above him upon the
hill, with open helmet, and the five roses glowing upon his
breast. With a sweep of his hands he had thrust his guardians
aside and for a moment was clear of the throng.
"Squire Loring! Squire Loring!" he cried. "It is I, Aylward the
archer! It is I, Samkin Aylward!" The next minute a dozen hands
had seized him, his cries were muffled with a gag, and he was
hurled, the last of the band, through the black and threatening
archway of the gate. Then with a clang the two iron wings came
together, the portcullis swung upward, and captives and captors,
robbers and booty, were all swallowed up within the grim and
silent fortress.
XX. HOW THE ENGLISH ATTEMPTED THE CASTLE OF LA BROHINIERE
For some minutes Nigel remained motionless upon the crest of the
hill, his heart, like lead within him, and his eyes fixed upon the
huge gray walls which contained his unhappy henchman. He was
roused by a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder and the voice of
his young prisoner in his ear.
"Peste!" said he. "They have some of your birds in their cage,
have they not? What then, my friend? Keep your heart high! Is
it not the chance of war, to-day to them, to-morrow to thee, and
death at last for us all? And yet I had rather they were in any
hands than those of Oliver the Butcher.
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