The assailants had cut down a tree which they used as a battering-ram against the gate; but the stern bars were yet unbroken.  It was now pitch-dark.  A thunderstorm had suddenly gathered, and the report of the distant bolt came upon the ear, mingling with the still more appalling clash of the beam against the gate.

Brief indeed was the repose of the palmer before he was again at the embrasures.  Bold as he was, he trembled as a blinding flash poured a flood of livid light over the plain and castle.  It was not the sudden bolt that awed him; but the lightning streamed upon a host of armed men, stretching away as far as the eye could reach.  They were not half a mile off.  Another flash leaped out, and revealed a forest of spears.  “It is the king himself!” muttered the palmer; “we will be surrounded by a host!  God assist us, or we are lost!”

Such were the sounds that trembled on his lips as he abandoned his post.  Selecting the groom who had announced the enemy, he whispered to him: 

“Do you wish to save your mistress?”

“With my life!” said the man.

“Then lead me to the postern gate.”

In their impetuosity, the attacking party had neglected to blockade this avenue, before darkness prevented them from discovering it.  The banks of the moat opposite the gate had been made shelving, so as to afford a means of retreat to the besieged, without giving any advantage to the besieger.  When they had gained the postern and drawn back the bolts, the palmer said to his companion: 

“Now, as you value life and honor, saddle the best three horses—­one for yourself, one for your lady, the third for me—­swim the moat, and wait till I come.”

The groom promised obedience, and they separated—­the groom to the stable, and the palmer in quest of the Lady Margaret.  He found her in the midst of her dependents, praying in the oratory.  It was a sight to make the heart bleed—­that defenceless group, with tearful eyes and hands raised trembling to heaven, now starting as the iron gate groaned beneath the heavy blows, now glancing timidly around as the lightning streamed in upon them.  The palmer stepped up to the maiden and drew her aside.

“You must fly with me!” he said.

“Why?  Are we not safe?”

“Before one may count a hundred, we are surrounded by the whole army of the tyrant!”

This sudden and awful disclosure was too much for the frail maiden, already exhausted by watching and excitement.  She grasped his wrist, and shuddering as she fixed her eyes on him, staggered forward, and would have fallen, had not the palmer caught her now unconscious form, and, raising it in his arms, passed from the room.  Through the gallery, down the staircase, along the portico he passed, as swiftly as though he carried but a child.  The wind came damp and cold against his cheek, the rain poured pitilessly upon his head, the arrowy lightning seemed to play