“Pardieu!” he exclaimed, gazing down into the face already set in death. . .  “You were my enemy, yet had I known whom this suit encased, methinks my arm had dealt an easier blow.  Nathless, you were a better knight than churchman and, mayhap, it was a proper death for you to die.”

Just then, De Bury’s antagonist went by, running as easy as though his mail were silk and shouting: 

“To the keep!  To the keep!” to those upon the walls.  And behind him came Sir John, and the squires, and Raynor Royk with all the troop.

Whirling about, De Lacy sprang after.  But here had he and all the others met their match; for strain as they might, they gained not an inch; and when the foe reached the steps they were yet fifty feet away.

The door was open for him and rushing in he flung it shut, but with such force that it missed the catch and rebounded—­and at that instant, De Lacy thrust in his axe and he and Dauvrey threw themselves against the door and slowly forced it back.  Then of a sudden, it yielded and they were near to falling headlong.

Shouting his battle-cry, Aymer strode into the great hall and made for the wide stairway at the opposite end, where the remnants of the garrison were gathered for the final stand.  There were but nine and of them only the three in front were garbed in steel; and in the centre was he who had held the gate against Sir John de Bury.

Out-matched and out-armed there could be for them but one end to the melee; for though they held the vantage post yet it counted little against those who were arrayed below them, eager to begin.  Nevertheless, they stood calm and ready, leaning on their weapons, and showed no glint of fear.  And De Lacy, in admiration and loath to put them to the sword, raised his axe for silence.

“You bear yourselves as men deserving of a better cause,” he cried, “and I fain would not have your blood spilled needlessly.  Yield yourselves prisoners, and scathless shall you leave this castle within the hour—­all save one, if he be among you, the flat-nosed retainer of Lord Darby.  Him must I carry to the King.”

A gruff laugh came from the figure in the centre and he swung his visor up.

“Aye, sirs, be not surprised.  Behold him you have dubbed Flat-Nose—­by true name, Simon Gorges—­the leader of your assailants, Sir John de Bury, when yon Knight saved you—­the abductor of the Countess of Clare—­the man who eluded you, Sir Aymer de Lacy, at the house in Sheffield.”  And he laughed again.  “And now do I thank your worship for the proffered clemency to my fellows, and for the honor you have in store for me.  Yet am I scarce fit to stand before His Majesty; nor do the followers of the Master of Roxford accept favor or life from the enemy of their lord.  Here await we the onslaught, fair sirs, and let it come quickly that it may be quickly done.”

“Stay!” cried De Lacy fiercely.  “You have many more sins upon your soul, doubtless, than those just vaunted, yet will you not do one redeeming act ere you are sped?  For of a verity you shall die ere the shadows yonder lengthen by a span.  Where, I ask you, shall I find the Countess of Clare?”