“A disguise,” replied Sir Mark. “Gil himself.”
“Nay, it is Mother Goodhugh. I know her walk and her tap with her stick. The old hag! I’ll go and turn her back. What does she want?”
“Bah! be silent, man; she comes to see the maids—fortune-telling, or to beg for something in the way of cakes or wine. I’ll not have my plans spoiled now. Hist! what’s that?”
It was a heavier foot this time, and unmistakeably Gil and a companion had arrived. Then followed the rustling of the ladder, the waiting, the signal whistle, and, when the bridge had been closed, Sir Mark’s summons to surrender.
Lights flashed upon the dark scene as Sir Mark’s command rang out, and Gil saw that he and his men were far outnumbered.
He stamped his foot impatiently, for, though he felt no fear of being beaten, the presence of these men might hinder the carrying out of his plans.
“Surrender, you dog!” roared Sir Mark again. “In the King’s name, I say. Shoot down every man who resists.”
A scornful roar of laughter was the response; and, as the heavy guns of the period were levelled, Gil’s men, lithe and active as wild cats, leaped at their bearers with their swords, dashing the guns up, so that the scattered volley that followed sent the bullets skyward, while man after man was knocked down by a blow or the recoil of the piece.
Then commenced a furious fight; sword clashed with sword; there were groans, oaths, and cries; and, as Mace’s casement was opened, its occupant gazed down, shuddering at the hideous, torch-lit scene in the trampled garden.
“Be ready with that ladder, Wat,” cried Gil, hoarsely. “She must be got away now at any cost. Hah! there is Sir Mark.”