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Two grassy hills rise, like breasts, out of a rolling plain of grass.  Each is crowned with a tower; between them are the church and village of Chaluz, which form a straggling street.  Wall and ditch pen in these buildings and tie tower to tower:  as Richard saw, it was the easiest thing in the world to cut the line in the middle, isolate, then reduce the towers at leisure.  Adhemar saw that too, and got no comfort from it, until it occurred to him that if he occupied one tower and left the other to Saint-Pol, he would be free to act at his own discretion, that is, not act at all against the massed power of England and Anjou.  Saint-Pol, you see, fought for the life of Richard, and Adhemar for a gold table, which makes a great difference.  He effected this separation of garrisons; however, some show of resistance was made by manning the walls and daring the day with banners.

King Richard went softly to work, as he always ways did when actually hand in hand with war.  Warfare was an art to him, neither a sport nor a counter-irritant; he was never impetuous over it.  For a week he satisfied himself with a close investiture of the town on all sides.  No supplies could get in nor fugitives out.  Then, when everything was according to his liking, he advanced his engines, brought forward his towers, set sappers to work, and delivered assault in due form and at the weakest point.  He succeeded exquisitely.  There was no real defence.  The two hill-towers were stranded, Chaluz was his.

He put the garrison to the sword, and set the village on fire.  At once Viscount Adhemar and his men surrendered.  Richard took the treasure—­it was found that the golden Caeesar had no head—­and kept his word with the finders, hanging the Viscount and castellan on one gibbet within sight of the other tower.  ‘Oh, frozen villain,’ swore Saint-Pol between his teeth, ‘so shalt thou never hang me.’  But when he looked about him at his dozen of thin-faced men he believed that if Richard was not to hang him it might be necessary for him to hang himself.  More, it came into his mind that there was a hand or two under him which might be anxious to save him the trouble.  Being, however, a man of abundant spirit, he laughed at the summons to surrender so long as there was a horse to eat, man to shoot, or arrow for the shooting.  As for fire, he believed himself impregnable by that arm; and any day succour might come from the South.  Surely his Queen would not throw him to the dogs!  Where was Count John if not hastening to win a realm; where King Philip if not hopeful to chastise a vassal?  Daily King Richard, in no hurry, but desperately reckless, rode close to the tower and met the hardy eyes of Saint-Pol watching him from the top.  Richard was a galliard fighter, as he had always been.

‘Come down, Saint-Pol,’ he would say, ‘and dance with Limoges.’

‘When I come down, sire,’ the answer would be, ’there will be no dancing in your host.’