It was a maddening race. From the upper window the girl watched it in agony. The cross-bow bolts flew thick and fast around Ralph as he hurried to the wall. Some shattered themselves against the stones as he scaled it.
For a brief moment he stood out clearly upon the summit against the gray dawn, an easy mark for the archers. Then, without waiting to descend by the iron stanchions, he took a desperate plunge into the stream.
A desperate plunge.
Aliva saw him rise to the surface, and watched him swimming with all his might to the opposite bank.
But as he leaped from the top of the wall she saw another figure reach it, and she recognized the pursuer to be William de Breauté.
He held in his hand a ready-strung cross-bow which he had snatched from one of the warders.
Aliva saw him take aim and loose the shaft.
The figure of the swimmer half rose in the water, and then disappeared from view beneath its surface.
With a faint cry Aliva fell back swooning into the arms of Lady Margaret.