A long pile of
smoldering cinders was all that remained of their bridge, and on
it lay Astley and six other red-hot men glowing in their armor.
Knolles clinched his hands as he looked back at the ruin that was
wrought, and then surveyed the group of men who stood or lay
around him nursing their burned limbs and scowling up at the
exultant figures who waved on the castle wall. Badly scorched
himself, the young leader had no thought for his own injuries in
the rage and grief which racked his soul. "We will build another
bridge," he cried. "Set the peasants binding fagots once more."
But a thought had flashed through Nigel's mind. "See, fair sir,"
said he. "The nails of yonder door are red-hot and the wood as
white as ashes. Surely we can break our way through it."
"By the Virgin, you speak truly!" cried the French Squire. "If we
can cross the ditch the gate will not stop us. Come, Nigel, for
our fair ladies' sakes, I will race you who will reach it first,
England or France."
Alas for all the wise words of the good Chandos! Alas for all the
lessons in order and discipline learned from the wary Knolles. In
an instant, forgetful of all things but this noble challenge,
Nigel was running at the top of his speed for the burning gate.
Close at his heels was the Frenchman, blowing and gasping, as he
rushed along in his brazen armor.
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