“Hear me, Sir Oliver de Clisson,” said Gaston.  “Sir Eustace Lynwood hath a pair of mortal foes at the Prince’s court, who prevailed on a part of the garrison to yield him into your hands.  In my absence, they in part succeeded.  By the negligence of a drunken groom they were enabled to fall upon him in his sleep, and, as they deemed, had murdered him.  I, returning with the rest of the garrison, was enabled to rescue him, and deliver the Castle, where he now lies—­alive, indeed, but desperately wounded.  Now, I call upon you, Sir Oliver, to judge, whether it be the part of a true and honourable Knight to become partner of such miscreants, and to take advantage of so foul a web of treachery?”

“This may be a fine tale for the ears of younger knights-errant, Sir Squire,” was the reply of Clisson.  “For my part though I am no lover of treason, I may not let the King’s service be stayed by scruples.  For yourself, Sir Squire, I make you a fair offer.  You are, by your tongue and countenance, a Gascon—­a liegeman born of King Charles of France.  To you, and to every other man of French birth, I offer to enter his service, or to depart whither it may please you, with arms and baggage, so you will place the Castle in our hands—­and leave us to work our will of the island dogs it contains!”

“Thanks, Sir Oliver, for such a boon as I would not vouchsafe to stoop to pick up, were it thrown at my feet!”

“Well and good, Sir Squire,” said Clisson, rather pleased at the bold reply.  “We understand each other.  Fare thee well.”

And Gaston walked back to the Castle, muttering to himself, “Had it been but the will of the Saints to have sent Du Guesclin hither, then would Sir Eustace have been as safe and free as in Lynwood Keep itself!  But what matters it?  If he dies of his wounds, what good would my life do me, save to avenge him—­and from that he has debarred me.  So, grim Oliver, do thy worst!—­Ha!” as he entered the Castle—­“down portcullis—­up drawbridge!  Archers, bend your bows!  Martin, stones for the mangonel!”

Nor was the assault long delayed.  Clisson’s men only waited to secure their horses and prepare their ladders, and the attack was made on every side.

It was well and manfully resisted.  Bravely did the little garrison struggle with the numbers that poured against them on every side, and the day wore away in the desperate conflict.

Sir Eustace heard the loud cries of “Montjoie St. Denis!  Clisson!” on the one side, and the “St. George for Merry England!  A Lynwood!” with which his own party replied; he heard the thundering of heavy stones, the rush of combatants, the cries of victory or defeat.  Sometimes his whole being seemed in the fight; he clenched his teeth, he shouted his war-cry, tried to raise himself and lift his powerless arm; then returned again to the consciousness of his condition, clasped either the rosary or the crucifix, and turned his soul to fervent prayer; then, again, the strange wild cries without confounded themselves into one maddening noise on his feverish ear, or, in the confusion of his weakened faculties, he would, as it were, believe himself to be his brother dying on the field of Navaretta, and scarce be able to rouse himself to a feeling of his own identity.