“Peace!” said the nobleman, sternly.  “I loathe the very word betray—­spoken or intended.  Shame, shame on thee to speak it, and yet more shame to imagine it needed!  Art thou of Norman birth, and deemest a handful of Scotch like these will bid us raise the siege and tamely depart?—­yet better so than gained by treachery.”

Hugo and the Scottish baron alike shrunk back from the reproving look of Hereford, and both silently followed him to the courtyard.  Already it was a scene of bustling animation:  trumpets were sounding and drums rolling; torches flashing through the darkness on the mailed coats of the knights and on gleaming weapons; and the heavy tramp of near two hundred horse, hastily accoutred and led from the stable, mingled with the hoarse winds of winter, howling tempestuously around.  The reserve which Hereford had retained to guard the prisoners so treacherously delivered over to him, was composed of the noblest amidst his army, almost all mounted chevaliers; and, therefore, though he might not add much actual force to the besiegers, the military skill and experience which that little troop included argued ill for the besieged.  Some of the heaviest engines he had kept back also, particularly a tower some four or five stories high, so constructed that it could be rolled to the walls, and its inmates ascend unscathed by the weapons of their defenders.  Not imagining it would be needed, he had not sent it on with the main body, but now he commanded twelve of the strongest horses to be yoked to it, and on went the unwieldy engine, rumbling and staggering on its ill-formed wheels.  Lancaster, whose impatience no advice could ever control, dashed on with the first troop, leaving his cooler comrade to look to the yoking of the engines and the marshalling the men, and with his own immediate attendants bringing up the rear, a task for which Hereford’s self-command as well fitted him as his daring gallantry to head the foremost charge.

“Ye will have a rough journey, my good lord; yet an ye deem it best, farewell and heaven speed ye,” was the parting greeting of the baron, as he stood beside the impatient charger of the earl.

“The rougher the better,” was that nobleman’s reply; “the noise of the wind will conceal our movements better than a calmer night.  Farewell, and thanks—­a soldier’s thanks, my lord, poor yet honest—­for thy right noble welcome.”

He bent his head courteously, set spurs to his steed, and dashed over the drawbridge as the last of his men disappeared through the outer gate.  The Scottish nobleman looked after him with many mingled feelings.

“As noble a warrior as ever breathed,” he muttered; “it were honor to serve under him, yet an he wants me not I will not join him.  I love not the Bruce, yet uncalled, unneeded, I will not raise sword against my countrymen,” and with slow, and equal steps he returned to the hall.