Harry saw that it was only a matter of minutes before the barricade at the entrance to the keep would be blown in. He utilized the time by bringing down a further supply of stones from the battlements and storing them within easy reach of the inner stairway. He could not prevent the explosion, or raise further obstacles to the progress of the besiegers; he could but defend every inch of the staircase, and retreat, if it must be so, step by step to the top of the keep. Almost despairing now of relief, he was prepared to fight to the end, and, looking round on his little group of stalwarts, he saw no sign of wavering on their part. Eugene's men were worthy of their master.
Half an hour passed; the pause lengthened itself to an hour; yet the train had not been fired, the attack had not been renewed. Had the enemy some still more desperate device in preparation? Instinctively he looked far out over the country; but through the sun-shot haze he descried no sign of a friendly force. Then the watchman whom he had left on the roof saw a thin ribbon of flame dart from the outer gateway, along the wall, to the barred doorway of the keep. There was a deafening roar, followed by the crash of ruining stone-work and the vociferations of the exultant forayers, who swarmed forward to clear away the rubbish. Their ingenuity was inexhaustible. When the mingled smoke and dust had eddied away, Harry saw that they bore with them stout shields of wood, each carried by two men, intended to ward off the missiles he was preparing to launch upon them as they mounted the winding stairs. This was the explanation of their long stillness. Running down, he heard from his left the din of fierce strife in the stairway leading to the dungeons. The enemy were attacking at both points simultaneously.
Then began the last bitter struggle: the besiegers pushing relentlessly before them the long upright shields that occupied almost the whole height and breadth of the stairway; the besieged contesting every step, hacking and thrusting, splitting the shields with the jagged boulders from the ramparts, lunging with sword and pike through the narrow spaces at the sides, yet moment by moment losing ground as fresh men from below came up to replace their wounded or exhausted comrades. A din compounded of many separate noises filled the narrow space—the crash of stones, the creak of riven wood, the clash of steel upon steel or stone, the crack of pistols, the cries of men in various tongues—cries of pain, of triumph, of encouragement, of revenge. Desperately fought the little garrison, every man loyal, resolute, undismayed. They had no reserves to draw upon; theirs but to stand staunch against fearful odds, and, if it must be, die with courage and clear minds. With labouring breath, drenched with sweat, sickened by the reek, battle-worn and weary, they plied their weapons, hurled their missiles, grimly gave blow for blow. Back and ever back they were driven by the remorseless shields; forced from the lower stairways they are now collected—a little band of seven—on the single one above; Harry and Max in front, two pikemen behind, and behind these, three who turn by turn smite the mass thronging below, over the heads of their own comrades, with cyclopean masses which only the strength of despair enables them to lift and hurl. Now a stone crashes clean through one shield, ay, through two, making its account of the bearers, and giving pause to the brigands. Now a pike transfixes a limb, a sword cleaves a red path, a bullet carries death. But the enemy press on and up; like an incoming tide they roll back a little after every upward rush, rising, falling, yet ever creeping higher, soon to sweep all before them.
Now only six men hold the narrow stair. The dimness of the scarce lit space below is illumined from above; a yell of triumph breaks from the brigands' throats as they realize that they are nearing the top of the turret. The cry is like a knell to the hearts of Harry Rochester and his devoted five. Only a few steps, and they must be forced upon the roof, driven against the parapet, at bay to the horde of wolvish outlaws already exulting in their victory. Aglionby has gone, sore hurt by a thrust from a pike; but a doughty leader is still left, the lithe Frenchman whose peacock's feather flickers hither and thither in the van. Mechanically the defenders wield their weapons, cast their last stones; the force is gone from their strokes, their dints fall ever feebler and feebler upon the steel-edged wooden wall that thrusts them upward without mitigation or remorse. Never a man dreams of yielding; Buckley falteringly whispers a word of final cheer; there is no mercy for such obstinate fighters from the savage outlaws, afire with the lust of blood, infuriated by the checks and losses of the past desperate days.
They are at the upmost turn of the stairway now, their heads already in the pure clear air of the bright June morning. The imminence of the end nerves them for a last despairing rally. Through the gaping joints of the battered shields they make so sudden and trenchant an attack on the foe that for a brief moment the upward movement is checked. A rebound: already the feathered Frenchman leaps upward as on the crest of a wave, when a confused shout reverberates through the hollow turret, a message is sped with the rapidity of lightning from base to summit; all is hushed to a sudden silence; then, while the six stand in amazed stillness, the Frenchman swings round and, amid the clatter of wood and weapons, flees headlong down the stairs at the heels of his scurrying comrades. Bewilderment for a moment possesses the six, as, with the vision of death before their eyes, they rest heavily on their weapons. Then Buckley, nearest to the parapet, with a shout that breaks into a sob, cries:
"They flee! they flee!"
Three bounds bring Harry to his side. With elbows on the parapet he gazes hungrily into the open. The four press about him. Between the castle and the copse men are scampering like scared animals, a few on horseback, most of them on foot. And yes—in the distance, moving across the hills from the north-west,—what is it that causes Harry's heart to leap, his blood to sing a song of tempestuous joy in every vein? One look is enough; he cannot be deceived; in the horsemen galloping amain towards him he recognizes his own regiment, the Anspach dragoons. One moment of self-collection: then he turns to his men.
"We are saved, my men," he says quietly.
And from the parched throats of the five war-scarred warriors on that ancient keep rises a hoarse thin cheer, that floats away on the breeze, and meets the faint blare of a bugle.
CHAPTER XXIII