offed crosier and mitre for that
day, and though fat and pursy, panted up the breach with the most
resolute spirit, roaring out war-cries and curses, and wielding a
prodigious mace of iron, with which he did good execution. Roger de
Backbite was forced to come in attendance upon the sovereign, but took
care to keep in the rear of his august master, and to shelter behind his
huge triangular shield as much as possible. Many lords of note followed
the King and bore the ladders; and as they were placed against the wall,
the air was perfectly dark with the shower of arrows which the French
archers poured out at the besiegers, and the cataract of stones,
kettles, bootjacks, chests of drawers, crockery, umbrellas,
congreve-rockets, bombshells, bolts and arrows and other missiles
which the desperate garrison flung out on the storming-party. The King
received a copper coal-scuttle right over his eyes, and a mahogany
wardrobe was discharged at his morion, which would have felled an
ox, and would have done for the King had not Ivanhoe warded it off
skilfully. Still they advanced, the warriors falling around them like
grass beneath the scythe of the mower.

The ladders were placed in spite of the hail of death raining round: the
King and Ivanhoe were, of course, the first to mount them. Chalus stood
in the breach, borrowing strength from despair; and roaring out, "Ha!
Plantagenet, St. Barbacue for Chalus!" he dealt the King a crack across
the helmet with his battle-axe, which shore off the gilt lion and
crown that surmounted the steel cap. The King bent and reeled back; the
besiegers were dismayed; the garrison and the Count of Chalus set up a
shout of triumph: but it was premature.

As quick as thought Ivanhoe was into the Count with a thrust in tierce,
which took him just at the joint of the armor, and ran him through as
clean as a spit does a partridge. Uttering a horrid shriek, he fell
back writhing; the King recovering staggered up the parapet; the rush
of knights followed, and the union-jack was planted triumphantly on the
walls, just as Ivanhoe,--but we must leave him for a moment.

"Ha, St. Richard!--ha, St. George!" the tremendous voice of the
Lion-king was heard over the loudest roar of the onset. At every sweep
of his blade a severed head flew over the parapet, a spouting trunk
tumbled, bleeding, on the flags of the bartizan. The world hath never
seen a warrior equal to that Lion-hearted Plantagenet, as he raged
over