, 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.

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 b