"By Saint Paul!" cried Nigel hotly. "Would you leave our wounded
where this butcher may lay his hands upon them? Let the archers
shoot inwards and hold them back from the slits. Now let each man
raise one of our comrades, lest we leave our honor in the gate of
this castle."
With a mighty effort he had raised Raoul upon his shoulders and
staggered with him to the edge of the ditch. Several men were
waiting below where the steep bank shield them from the arrows,
and to them Nigel handed down his wounded friend, and each archer
in turn did the same. Again and again Nigel went back until no
one lay in the tunnel save seven who had died there. Thirteen
wounded were laid in the shelter of the ditch, and there they must
remain until night came to cover them. Meanwhile the bowmen on
the farther side protected them from attack, and also prevented
the enemy from all attempts to build up the outer gate. The
gaping smoke-blackened arch was all that they could show for a
loss of thirty men, but that at least Knolles was determined to
keep.
Burned and bruised, but unconscious of either pain or fatigue for
the turmoil of his spirit within him, Nigel knelt by the Frenchman
and loosened his helmet. The girlish face of the young Squire was
white as chalk, and the haze of death was gathering over his
violet eyes, but a faint smile played round his lips as he looked
up at his English comrade.
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