Dreams, recollections, of a sudden all were blotted out. He was sitting up, he knew, in a place that save for two feeble flickers of light was pitchy black, he heard men running and shouting, and, over all and subduing all, he heard a crash, crash which he judged bewilderedly to be of cannonading. The roof must fall soon, he feared, and scrambling to his feet he ran forward into the darkness and tumult. Above the uproar he caught Captain Gwyeth’s voice, steady and distinct: “Lieutenant von Holzberg, your squadron to their stations at the windows. Corporal Ridydale, take six men and bear the wounded down into the crypt.”
Following the voice, Hugh stumbled into the transept and, getting used to the dark, had a vague sight of his father, who, with his hands behind him, stood giving orders to right and left. Hugh leaned against the wall close by and kept his hand to his head that throbbed and beat with each stroke of the cannon and shake of the building. During a lull in the firing he caught the captain’s voice in a lower key: “You here, Hugh?”
“I—I take it I was frightened up,” he stammered. “You’ll help me to a sword before the end?”
“No need for that yet,” Captain Gwyeth answered. “They’ll not be able to batter in these walls for hours. And by then—” His voice took a curious change of tone: “You are sure, Hugh, they made no mention of what time Saturday the aid would come?”
“No, none,” Hugh replied; “but ’twill surely come, sir. Dick promised.”
“Well, well, we’ve much to hope,” said the captain, “and, faith, that’s all we can do now. Sit down here, Hugh,” he went on, leading him over to the pulpit stairs. “I’ve a notion ’twould be pleasing if I could lay hands on you when I want you.”
Then he went back into the din and confusion of the nave, and Hugh, leaning his head against the balustrade, harked dazedly to the successive boom of cannon. Through it all he found space in his heart to be glad that his father had not suggested sending him down into the crypt with the other wounded.
Out through a shattered window to the east he had sight of a strip of sky, uneven with clouds, and some small stars. Little by little they paled while he sat there, and still the guns kept up their clamor. Once, after the shot, came a great rattling, and a piece of stone crashed down from the western wall; Hugh heard a confused running in that direction, and the captains voice that checked it. Once again, when oddly he had fallen into a numb sort of doze, came another shattering crash, and right upon it a man screamed out in a way that made Hugh shudder and choke. After that he dozed no more, but rigid and upright sat listening.
It was light enough to distinguish faces when at length Captain Gwyeth, with his brows drawn and his teeth tugging at one end of his mustache, came up to him. “I’ve a sling here for that arm of yours,” he said brusquely, beginning to fasten the bandage. “’Twould be in your way for any fighting purposes. And here’s a sword. You may have to use it, unless our friends come quickly.” Then he paused a time by Hugh, not speaking, but scowling upon the floor, and at last strode moodily away.
The light broadened and brightened within the church; a patch of sunshine gleamed upon the floor, and through an east window Hugh could catch the rays of yellow light glinting across the sombre leaves of the yew tree. It was a rare, warm, August day, a strange time for a life and death struggle, he told himself, as he drew the sword clumsily from its scabbard. Then he looked to the western wall of the church, where the light was smiting in now at a great gap and the crumbled stones lay scattered across the floor. Up above he saw a broken fragment of the roof that hung and swayed so its motion fascinated him. Of a sudden, as he gazed stupidly, he became aware the cannonading had ceased, and he wondered that he had not marked it before. Then he heard again his father’s curt, quick tones, and saw the troopers quit their stations to gather opposite the gap in the wall.