Then as the stout door at length crashed in Rosamund turned what she had written face downwards on the desk, and seizing the bow, set an arrow to its string.  Now it was down and on rushed the mob up the six feet of narrow passage.  At the end of it, in front of the overturned table, they halted suddenly.  For there before them, skull-emblazoned, shield on arm, his long sword lifted, and a terrible wrath burning in his eyes, stood the old knight, like a wolf at bay, and by his side, bow in hand, the beauteous lady Rosamund, clad in all her festal broideries.

“Yield you!” cried a voice.  By way of answer the bowstring twanged, and an arrow sped home to its feathers through the throat of the speaker, so that he went down, grabbing at it, and spoke no more for ever.

As he fell clattering to the floor, Sir Andrew cried in a great voice: 

“We yield not to pagan dogs and poisoners.  A D’Arcy!  A D’Arcy!  Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!”

Thus for the last time did old Sir Andrew utter the warcry of his race, which he had feared would never pass his lips again.  His prayer had been heard, and he was to die as he had desired.

“Down with him! seize the Princess!” said a voice.  It was that of Georgios, no longer humble with a merchant’s obsequious whine, but speaking in tones of cold command and in Arabic.  For a moment the swarthy mob hung back, as well they might in face of that glittering sword.  Then with a cry of “Salah-ed-din!  Salah-ed-din!” on they surged, with flashing spears and scimitars.  The overthrown table was in front of them, and one leapt upon its edge, but as he leapt, the old knight, all his years and sickness forgotten now, sprang forward and struck downwards, so heavy a blow that in the darkling mouth of the passage the sparks streamed out, and where the Saracen’s head had been, appeared his heels.  Back Sir Andrew stepped again to win space for his sword-play, while round the ends of the table broke two fierce-faced men.  At one of them Rosamund shot with her bow, and the arrow pierced his thigh, but as he fell he struck with his keen scimitar and shore the end off the bow, so that it was useless.  The second man caught his foot in the bar of the oak chair which he did not see, and went down prone, while Sir Andrew, taking no heed of him, rushed with a shout at the crowd who followed, and catching their blows upon his shield, rained down others so desperate that, being hampered by their very number, they gave before him, and staggered back along the passage.

“Guard your right, father!” cried Rosamund.  He sprang round, to see the Saracen, who had fallen, on his feet again.  At him he went, nor did the man wait the onset, but turned to fly, only to find his death, for the great sword caught him between neck and shoulders.  Now a voice cried:  “We make poor sport with this old lion, and lose men.  Keep clear of his claws, and whelm him with spear casts.”

But Rosamund, who understood their tongue, sprang in front of him, and answered in Arabic: