Several small parties of the English faction had been
cut off and slain to a man, and so straitened were the others that
it was difficult for them to gather provisions from the country
round.
Such was the state of Bambro's garrison when on that March evening
Knolles and his men streamed into the bailey-yard of his Castle.
In the glare of the torches at the inner gate Bambro' was waiting
to receive them, a dry, hard, wizened man, small and fierce, with
beady black eyes and quick furtive ways.
Beside him, a strange contrast, stood his Squire, Croquart, a
German, whose name and fame as a man-at-arms were widespread,
though like Robert Knolles himself he had begun as a humble page.
He was a very tall man, with an enormous spread of shoulders, and
a pair of huge hands with which he could crack a horse-shoe. He
was slow and lethargic, save in moments of excitement, and his
calm blond face, his dreamy blue eyes and his long fair hair gave
him so gentle an appearance that none save those who had seen him
in his berserk mood, raging, an iron giant, in the forefront of
the battle, could ever guess how terrible a warrior he might be.
Little knight and huge squire stood together under the arch of the
donjon and gave welcome to the newcomers, whilst a swarm of
soldiers crowded round to embrace their comrades and to lead them
off where they might feed and make merry together.
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