"This first," he said, and catching up the broad, unbacked bench which day by day had served Ursula de Vesc as a resting-place he flung it, flat downwards, across the railless stair-head. "It's done, Hugues, and never fear but we'll fight," he cried, offering the only comfort he could to the man who, down below, gave his life for them all. "Now, Follette, I am ready."
But Hugues still held the door, and for the first time La Mothe had leisure to look round him. In the background were Blaise and Marcel—barehanded, silent, helpless. The younger, Marcel, was crying openly but dumbly, the tears running unheeded and unwiped down his cheeks; the other, dogged and dour, with teeth and fists clenched, was of braver stuff, a fighter, but without a weapon. Midway, still exhausted from his flight, Charles lay on his elbow, propped against Ursula de Vesc, who stooped above him with one arm round his shoulders as support. The boy's long narrow face was paler beyond his natural pallor, but his mouth was firm-set, his eyes bright and dry. The girl's features were hidden, and Stephen La Mothe was not sure whether he was glad or sorry. To have read coldness or reproach in her eyes at such a time would have been bitter indeed.
It was but a glance, then La Follette touched his arm. Down below there was no longer the rasp of steel on wood. Hugues was fighting now barehanded, but he had been better than his word—the three minutes had been prolonged to four. Then came a cry, "Ah, God!" and La Mothe heard Ursula de Vesc sob. For a moment she looked up and their glances met, but there was little time to read her message, little time to see anything but the pain in the grey eyes. A rush of feet on the stairs called him, and side by side with La Follette he bent across the well. The bench half covered the opening, but there were slits of a foot or more wide at either edge, opening the way for attack.
But the rush ceased almost as soon as it began. This new obstacle was unlooked for, and between the slits those above could see the savagely passionate faces of the besiegers staring up at them. Then one, bolder or more enterprising than the rest, crept up cautiously step by step, measuring his distance as he advanced.
"Cover me," he said to the next lower. "Strike at whatever shows itself," and thrust blindly upwards. It was their first sight of bare steel, and Ursula de Vesc drew in her breath with a shiver as she saw the red smear upon its flat. "Oh! Hugues, Hugues," she moaned, and the Dauphin, catching at her hand with both his, shrank closer.
"Damnation!" cried La Mothe, striking fiercely at the blade as it darted from side to side or sawed back and forth. But when he would have struck a second time La Follette curtly forbade him.
"You may break your sword, and he can do no harm from where he is."
So they discovered for themselves, and the foremost crept yet a step higher. But when he struck afresh La Follette, lunging aslant and downwards, caught him below the wrist. With a curse he let the blade fall clattering, and there was a pause. But if he were bolder, those behind had not been idle. A voice from the background cried out to clear the steps, and before those above understood the altered tactics a picket, drawn from the palisade, was thrust between the bench and the wall. It was La Follette who first grasped the danger.
"Blaise—Marcel!" he cried. "Here on the bench both of you and hold it down."
But only one answered the call. Marcel was on his knees in the corner praying for the miracle which should be his own handiwork, not the first man nor the last who has called on God to bear the burden his own shoulder refuses. Blaise was of better stuff. "Here I am, monsieur," he cried, but before he could bring his weight to bear a second picket, sharpened at the point, was rammed up and forward with two men's strength, driving the bench aslant till its end dipped and it fell with a crash, scattering those below, but with little hurt. The way was open, but Hugues' foresight had added five minutes to the four.