“And fear not that task shall be other than thine own, my gallant friend,” was Hereford’s instant reply, his features kindling at Lancaster’s words more than they had done yet; and then again quickly resuming his calm unimpassioned exterior, he inquired if the mangonels and other engines were again fit for use.  There were several that could instantly be put in action was the reply.  Had the numbers of fighting men within the castle been ascertained?  They had, a veteran answered, from a prisoner, who had appeared so willing to give information, that his captors imagined there were very many malcontents within the walls.  Of stalwart fighting men there were scarcely more than three hundred; others there were, of whose number was the prisoner, who fought because their companions’ swords would else have been at their throats, but that they would be glad enough to be made prisoners, to escape the horrors of the siege.

“I am sorry for it,” was the earl’s sole rejoinder, “there will be less glory in the conquest.”

“And this Sir Nigel Bruce, whoe’er he be, hath to combat against fearful odds,” remarked Lancaster; “and these Scotch-men, by my troth, seem touched by the hoof of the arch-deceiver—­treachery from the earl to the peasant.  Hast noticed how this scion of the Bruce bears himself?—­right gallantly, ’tis said.”

“As a very devil, my lord,” impetuously answered a knight; “in the walls or out of them, there’s no standing before him.  He sweeps down his foes, line after line, as cards blown before the wind; he is at the head of every charge, the last of each retreat.  But yesternight there were those who marked him covering the retreat of his men absolutely alone; his sword struck down two at every sweep, till his passage was cleared; he darted on—­the drawbridge trembled in its grooves—­for he had given the command to raise it, despite his own danger—­his charger, mad as himself, sprang forward, and like a lightning flash, both disappeared within the portcullis as the bridge uprose.”

“Gallantly done!” exclaimed Lancaster, who had listened to this recital almost breathlessly.  “By St. George, a foe worthy to meet and struggle with!  But who is he—­what is he?”

“Knowest thou not?” said Hereford, surprised; “the brother, youngest brother I have heard, of this same daring Earl of Carrick who has so troubled our sovereign.”

“Nigel, the brother of Robert!  What, the scribe, the poet, the dreamer of Edward’s court? a poor youth, with naught but his beauty to recommend him.  By all good angels, this metamorphosis soundeth strangely! art sure ’tis the same, the very same?”

“I have heard so,” was Hereford’s quiet reply, and continuing his more important queries with the veterans around, while Lancaster, his gayer spirit roused by this account of Nigel, demanded every minute particular concerning him, that he might seek him hand to hand.