Already the precious store-waggons (in one of which Bertrand had gently laid the helpless Wolf) were close to the open gate—and now the foremost was actually within it—and now, amid the whiz of crossbow-bolts from the walls and the hiss of arrows from the plain, the triumphant cheers of the garrison and the savage cries of the baffled pursuers, the heroes of this marvellous feat struggled wearily into the sheltering town, and the gate clanged behind them.
“Spare our lives, noble sir! We have lost all else that we had in the world!” cried one of the peasant waggon-drivers, as he and the others threw themselves at Du Guesclin’s feet.
“Why, how now, lads?” cried Bertrand, with that blunt, hearty frankness that always made him popular with the common people. “Ye are Bretons, like me, and why should I be wroth with my own folk? If, as ye say, ye have lost all, it fits me better to aid than to punish you. What have ye done amiss?”
“We drove these waggons to the English camp; but what could we do? The spear was at our throats! Leave us our lives, noble knight; we have nought else to lose!”
“As God hears me, who hath delivered me this night,” said the hero, solemnly, “not a hair of your heads shall be touched, and all ye have lost shall be made good, if it cost me my last crown. While Bertrand du Guesclin hath a coin in his purse, any man that is poor and needy is welcome to share it!”
The poor peasants kissed his hands with broken thanks, and the rough soldiers around set up a cheer that made the air ring.
When day dawned on that wild scene, it revealed a sight at which the oldest English veteran stood aghast. Half the camp lay in ashes, blotting the clear sky with its smoke. The military engines, constructed with so much labour and cost, were shattered and useless. Hundreds of the duke’s best men had fallen, and so many horses were carried off or disabled that half his knights were dismounted; and, worse than all, of the supplies brought in at such cost of toil and blood, not a morsel was left.
But, furious as the great general was to see the labours of months destroyed in a night, and all his hopes of winning the town blasted in the very moment of success, the uppermost feeling in his brave English heart was an honest, manly admiration of the gallant foe whose skill and courage had triumphed over his utmost efforts; and that admiration rose higher still when some English soldiers, who had been shut into the town with the Bretons on the previous night, and dismissed unharmed at dawn by Bertrand himself, came back with the news of his kindness to the peasants.
“So help me St. George!” cried the duke, “since lance was first lifted in this land, there hath been no such gentle and perfect knight as this same Du Guesclin, and gladly would I tell him so myself. Ho there! let my herald presently go up to the town with trumpet-sound and banner displayed, and say to Messire Bertrand du Guesclin that John of Gaunt prays him to grace our board with his presence this day as a right welcome and honoured guest.”