"
"By Saint Paul, we cannot suffer it!" cried Nigel distractedly.
"This man has come with me from my own home. He has stood between
me and death before now. It goes to my very heart that he should
call upon me in vain. I pray you, Raoul, to use your wits, for
mine are all curdled in my head. Tell me what I should do and how
I may bring him help."
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "As easy to get a lamb
unscathed out of a wolves' lair as a prisoner safe from La
Brohiniere. Nay, Nigel, whither do you go? Have you indeed taken
leave of your wits?"
The Squire had spurred his horse down the hillside and never
halted until he was within a bowshot of the gate. The French
prisoner followed hard behind him, with a buzz of reproaches and
expostulations.
"You are mad, Nigel!" he cried. "What do you hope to do then?
Would you carry the castle with your own hands? Halt, man, halt,
in the name of the Virgin!"
But Nigel had no plan in his head and only obeyed the fevered
impulse to do something to ease his thoughts. He paced his horse
up and down, waving his spear, and shouting insults and challenges
to the garrison. Over the high wall a hundred jeering faces
looked down upon him. So rash and wild was his action that it
seemed to those within to mean some trap, so the drawbridge was
still held high and none ventured forth to seize him.
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