marking the azure plume, which even then waved high
above all others, though round it the work of death
ever waxed hottest; the efforts of the English earl
were all bent to meet its gallant wearer hand to hand,
but the press of war still held them apart, though
both seemed in every part of the field. It was
a desperate struggle man to man; the clash of swords
became one strange continuous mass of sound, instead
of the fearful distinctness which had marked their
work before. Shouts and cries mingled fearfully
with the sharper clang, the heavy fall of man and
horse, the creaking of the engines, the wild shrieks
of the victims within the walls mangled by the stones,
or from the survivors who witnessed their fall—all
formed a din as terrific to hear, as dreadful to behold.
With even more than their wonted bravery the Scotch
fought, but with less success. The charge of the
English was no longer the impetuous fury of a few
hot-headed young men, more eager to
despite
their cooler advisers, than gain any permanent good
for themselves. Now, as one man fell another
stepped forward in his place, and though the slaughter
might have been equal, nay, greater on the side of
the besiegers than the besieged, by one it was scarcely
felt, by the other the death of each man was even
as the loss of a host. Still, still they struggled
on, the English obtaining possession of the palisades,
though the immense strength of the barbacan itself,
defended as it was by the strenuous efforts of the
Scotch, still resisted all attack: bravely, nobly,
the besieged retreated within their walls, pellmell
their foes dashed after them, and terrific was the
combat on the drawbridge, which groaned and creaked
beneath the heavy tramp of man and horse. Many,
wrestling in the fierceness of mortal strife, fell
together in the moat, and encumbered with heavy armor,
sunk in each other’s arms, in the grim clasp
of death.
Then it was Lancaster met hand to hand the gallant
foe he sought, covering the retreat of his men, who
were bearing Sir Christopher Seaton, desperately wounded,
to the castle. Sir Nigel stood well-nigh alone
on the bridge; his bright armor, his foaming charger
bore evident marks of the fray, but still he rode
his steed firmly and unbent, his plume yet waved untouched
by the foeman’s sword. Nearer and nearer
pressed forward the English earl, signing to his men
to secure without wounding his gallant foe; round
him they closely gathered, but Nigel evinced no sign
either of trepidation or anger, fearlessly, gallantly,
he returned the earl’s impetuous charge, backing
his steed slowly as he did so, and keeping his full
front to his foe. On, on pressed Lancaster, even
to the postern; a bound, a shout, and scarcely was
he aware that his sword had ceased to cross with Nigel’s,
before he was startled by the heavy fall of the portcullis,
effectually dividing them, and utterly frustrating
further pursuit. A cry of rage, of disappointment
broke from the English, as they were compelled to
turn and rejoin their friends.