I said, "or we may find that Phorenice's brain has been
one too many for us."

The captain of the gate took one of the balls in his hand, lit the fuse,
and hurled it. The horrid thing burst amongst a mass of men who were
labouring with a huge engine, sputtering them with its deadly fire, and
lighting their garments. The plan of the engine showed itself plainly.
They had built them a vast great tower, resting on wheels at its base,
so that it might by pushed forward from behind, and slanting at its foot
to allow for the steepness of the path and leave it always upright.

It was storeyed inside, with ladders joining each floor, and through
slits in the side which faced us bowmen could cover an attack. From its
top a great bridge reared high above it, being carried vertically till
the tower was brought near enough for its use. The bridge was hinged at
the third storey of the tower, and fastened with ropes to its extreme
top; but, once the ropes were cut, the bridge would fall, and light upon
whatever came within its swing, and be held there by the spikes with
which it was studded beneath.

I saw, and inwardly felt myself conquered. The cleverness of Phorenice
had been too strong for my defence. No war-engine of which we had
command could overset the tower. The whole of its massive timbers
were hung with the wet new-stripped skins of beasts, so that even the
throwing-fire could not destroy it. What puny means we had to impede
those who pushed it forward would have little effect. Presently it would
come to the place appointed, and the ropes would be cut, and the bridge
would thunder down on the rampart above our last gate, and the stormers
would pour out to their final success.

Well, life had loomed very pleasant for me these few days with a warm
and loving Nais once more in touch of my arms, but the High Gods in
Their infinite wisdom knew best always, and I was no rebel to stay
stiff-necked against their decision. But it is ever a soldier's
privilege, come what may, to warm over a fight, and the most exquisitely
fierce joy of all is that final fight of a man who knows that he must
die, and who lusts only to make his bed of slain high enough to carry a
due memory of his powers with those who afterwards come to gaze upon it.
I gripped my axe, and the muscles of my arms stood out in knots at the
thought of it. Would Tatho come to give me sport? I feared not. They
would send only the common soldiers first to the storm, and