last, there was something of a lull; the cries
of mercy, and offers to surrender, alone were heard. Arthur found his
pony standing still, and himself pressed hither and thither by the
crowd, from which he knew not how to escape.

Above these various sounds he heard an opening door--there was a press
forward, which carried him with it. The heavy doors, shivered here and
there by Clisson's axe, had been thrown wide open; but the crowd closed
in--he saw no more. He threw himself from his pony, struggled
forwards, and at last, emerging between the arms of two tall men, he
beheld Sir John Chandos dismounting from his war-horse, which was held
by a grim, bloody, dusty figure in broken armour, whose length of limb,
and the crisp, black, curled hair that showed through the shattered
helmet, proved that it could be no other than Gaston d'Aubricour.

Arthur darted forwards, his heart upon his lips; but neither Knight nor
Squire had eye or ear for him; they were hastily exchanging queries
about--he knew not what--they were not of his uncle; and, borne on by
his impatience, he hurried past them up the narrow stone stair. More
than one corpse--a ghastly sight--lay on the steps, but he hastened on;
half a dozen men were standing on the stones at the top, all, like
Gaston, dusty and gory, and leaning on their weapons, or on the wall,
as if exhausted. They were looking intently at the court, and gave no
heed to the boy, as he ran on into the hall. Two men lay there
groaning before the fire. Arthur stood and looked round, hesitating
whether to ask them for his uncle; but, perceiving the spiral stairs,
quickly ascended. Far and far up he wound, till he came to a low-browed
arch; he paused, and saw a large vaulted room, through the loop-hole
window of which shone a yellow stream of golden sunshine. There was a
low bed in one corner, and on it lay a motionless form. On tiptoe, and
with a throbbing heart, the boy approached; he saw the face--it was
ghastly pale. He stood transfixed--could it be?--yes, it must still
be, his own Uncle Eustace.

CHAPTER XV

It was still very early, and the narrow line of sky seen from the
turret window was gilded by the bright pale-green light of morning,
when Sir Eustace awoke. All around was perfectly still, and he could
have believed himself waking merely from a dream of tumult and
disturbance, but for his feelings of pain and weakness. At some little
distance lay, on a softly-dressed