So passed the day—­and twilight was fast deepening into night, when the cries, a short time since more furious than ever, and nearer and more exulting on the part of the French, at length subsided, and finally died away; the trampling steps of the men-at-arms could be heard in the hall below, and Gaston himself came up with hasty step, undid his helmet, and, wiping his brow, threw himself on the ground with his back against the chest, saying, “Well, we have done our devoir, at any rate!  Poor Brigliador!  I am glad he has a kind master in Ingram!”

“Have they won the court?” asked Eustace.  “I thought I heard their shouts within it.”

“Ay!  Even so.  How could we guard such an extent of wall with barely five and twenty men?  Old Silverlocks and Jaques de l’Eure are slain Martin badly wounded, and we all forced back into the inner court, after doing all it was in a man to do.”

“I heard your voice, bold and cheerful as ever, above the tumult,” said Eustace.  “But the inner court is fit for a long defence—­that staircase parapet, where so few can attack at once.”

“Ay,” said Gaston, “it was that and the darkness that stopped them.  There I can detain them long enough to give the chance of the succours, so those knaves below do not fail in spirit—­and they know well enough what chance they have from yon grim-visaged Breton!  But as to those succours, I no more expect them than I do to see the Prince at their head!  A hundred to one that he never hears of our need, or, if he should, that Pembroke and Clarenham do not delay the troops till too late.”

“And there will be the loss of the most important castle, and the most faithful and kindest heart!” said Eustace.  “But go, Gaston—­ food and rest you must need after this long day’s fight—­and the defences must be looked to, and the men cheered!”

“Yes,” said Gaston, slowly rising, and bending over the Knight; “but is there nought I can do for you, Sir Eustace?”

“Nought, save to replenish my cup of water.  It is well for me that the enemy have not cut us off from the Castle well.”

Gaston’s supper did not occupy him long.  He was soon again in Eustace’s room, talking over his plan of defence for the next day; but with little, if any, hope that it would be other than his last struggle.  At last, wearied out with the exertions of that day and the preceding, he listened to Eustace’s persuasions, and, removing the more cumbrous portions of his armour, threw himself on his bed, and, in a moment, his regular breathings announced that he was sound asleep.

It was in the pale early light of dawn that he awoke, and, starting up while still half asleep, exclaimed, “Sir Eustace, are you there?  I should have relieved guard long since!” Then, as he recalled his situation, “I had forgot!  How is it with you, Sir Eustace?  Have you slept?”

“No,” said Eustace.  “I have not lost an hour of this last night I shall ever see.  It will soon be over now—­the sun is already reddening the sky; and so, Gaston, ends our long true-hearted affection.  Little did I think it would bring thee to thy death in the prime of they strength and manhood!” and he looked mournfully on the lofty stature and vigorous form of the Squire, as he stood over him.