and half-a-dozen men succeeded in mounting the battlements, the Count sprang forward and grasping one after another of the invaders, flung them, head over heels, through the air in such quick succession, and with such incredible force, that most of them rolled well nigh into the village of Alken before they came to rest on the hillside. The raiders gradually became discouraged, but were buoyed up by the hope that other points of attack might be more favoured by fate than theirs, else the retreat would have sounded from the bugle. But suddenly a riderless horse came galloping round a corner from the gate, and the officers recognised the animal from its trappings. Like wildfire spread the rumour, "Count Bertrich is slain," then all heart departed from the attack, and a wild exultant cheer rose from those in the castle. The retreat down the hill became a panic-stricken flight, which the catapults, now in activity again, accelerated.
"Show your white flag!" roared Heinrich, striding up and down the battlements, intoxicated with his triumph, and waving hands above his head like a madman. "Show your white flag; you surely were not foolish enough to attack without it."
The white flag presently did appear coming up from Alken, and the request was made that they be allowed to bear away their dead and wounded. Then at last the active engines ceased and the tired men sat on beams and parapet, drawing sleeves across their sweating brows.
The foot of the walls presented an appalling spectacle. There was a windrow of dead and wounded, as if the poor wrecked human beings had been some sort of wingless moths who had flung themselves against these adamant walls, and had paid the last penalty of their rashness. Parts of broken ladders lay mingled with the slain, together with the round lumps of stone which had been their undoing.
"Is it true that Count Bertrich has been slain?" asked Rodolph of Heinrich, when the latter had assumed his customary calm.
"I know nothing of it. Here is the archer who was on the tower; he may be able to tell us."
"Indeed," said Surrey, "I fear it is not true, for I had no fair shot at him. It was not my intention to have killed him so early in the game, but he must needs insult me, so I let fly at him."
"How did he insult you?"
"He raved at the cautious crossbow men, telling them that if they did not come out from the wood they were cowards. Now it is not fair to call a man a coward who fears my bow, and that expression I took as an insult. He is a wise man and not a coward who betakes himself to the wood when my arrows are abroad."
"I can bear witness to the truth of that," said the Black Count.
"I therefore loosed arrow at his slanderous mouth, but he turned his face just at the moment, and although I unhorsed him and he lay still enough till they dragged him away, I have my doubts regarding his death."
During all the rest of that stirring day soldiers were busy carrying their dead and wounded comrades down the steep hill to the village, and the white flag flew until darkness blotted it out.
CHAPTER XXVI.
AN ILLUMINATED NIGHT ATTACK ON THURON.
On the following morning there were no signs of activity in the camp, as the sentries on the castle walls gazed about them in the early dawn.
Heinrich thought that after a defeat so overwhelming the Archbishops would strike tent and hie themselves back to their respective cities, there to resume the religious duties which had been interrupted by the martial bugle blast, but Rodolph laboured under no such delusion. He said the defeat made a prolonged siege inevitable; that the feudal lords could not afford to turn their backs upon a vassal who had thus repulsed them, or their prestige in the land would be gone forever. And it was soon evident that, although there was no activity in the camp, neither was there any sign of departure. It was learned from those who came to make further search for the missing, that Count Bertrich lay grievously ill of his wound, and if he recovered there would be another scar on his already unattractive face, but hope was held that he might live, as he was being tenderly cared for in his own tent next to that of the Archbishop of Treves himself. Rodolph acquainted the archer with the condition of his high-born foe, and Surrey received the news with subdued dejection.
"I had no fair chance," he said, sadly. "A man on a prancing horse is ever a difficult mark, but when he is encased in armour with only his face showing, and then unexpectedly turns his head just as arrow leaves string, death, however merited, can hardly be looked for."
The archer spent most of his time on the tower top, industriously making arrows, and attended assiduously by his menial, who had conceived a strong attachment to him, chiefly through the medium of vigorous kicks and blows which John somewhat lavishly bestowed, hoping thus, as he said, to make a man of him.
"You may have another opportunity of giving Count Bertrich a taste of your skill," said Rodolph, "for I doubt if the siege is yet near its conclusion. Indeed that we still hold the castle is due most of all to you."
"We hold the castle through the mercy of Providence alone," said the archer, gloomily, uninfluenced by his master's praise.
"Through that of course," remarked Rodolph, "but also in a measure through our own hard blows and your accurate marksmanship."
"I am saying nothing against the valour of the garrison, my Lord. What I mean is, that if Providence had led my friend Roger Kent into the camp of the enemy, as I supposed was probable, there would have been little use of our longer holding out, for he could have stood in Alken or even further away and picked us off one by one as pleased him. No man would dare show face above parapet. I would rather undertake to conquer Thuron with Roger Kent alone than with all the army of the Archbishops."
"Let us be thankful therefore that he is elsewhere. You think then he is not with the Archbishop?"
"He has probably forgotten all about my going to Treves," replied the archer, sorrowfully. "Roger is an absent-minded man, and a dreamer. He is likely sitting on the bank of some stream, poetry making and watching the drying of the papyrus he fabricates, for unless hunger overcame him he would never think of accepting service with any, or of drawing bow. It was his hope that some good peasant would take charge of him, and feed him, allowing him to exchange poetry for what provender and lodging he had, but he has never found such, for he wants a hut in a picturesque spot, by a lake or near a waterfall, with hills or mountains round about, where he may make papyrus and poetry."
"What is the nature of this papyrus he manufactures, and what is its purpose?" asked the Emperor.
"He says the Egyptians produced it in ancient times. He macerates certain reeds and grasses together between two stones, in flowing water, and when he has compounded a substance like porridge, he spreads it thinly on a flat stone which lies in the sun. It dries very white, and is of light texture, like cloth, only more easily torn, and will last you a long time if kept dry, but in water it dissolves again. He has thus lost much good poetry, through lying in trenches during heavy rains, the which causes him to dislike campaigns where the tents are few. On his papyrus he indites with a sharp stylus his poems, and for safe keeping places the sheets under his doublet when he sleeps; but he rises, after a rainy night, encased in pulp, which he takes from various parts of his apparel with tender care, attempting to dry the same again in the sun. He tells me that even when successful in drying the substance, the poetry is gone. Thus does he yearn for a warm hut of his own, or any one's for that matter, who will let him use it. But there is small chance of a peasant taking him up; few of them care for poetry, and he never can save the money he earns; he was always a fool in that respect, differing greatly from me; he gives away his money to the first beggar that comes with a pitiful story."
"I like your friend Roger from what you tell me of him, and if I ever come near to him, God granting he has not bow in hand, I shall be pleased to furnish him the hut he craves, if we can find one with stream and waterfall in conjunction."
"What! and thus rob Germany of the finest archer that ever bent yew wood? Indeed, it is my hope that he shall find no such patron, but that we may both take service under one commander,