"Or Saint Andrew?" said Prosper sweetly.
"Or—"
"Or Montjoy, or Bide the Time, eh, Bailiff?"
"Messire, you have me at a disadvantage for the moment. The name is, however, that of a Saint."
"Say no more, Bailiff, but listen. There need be no more bloodshed over this place. Get your men together, to advance at a signal from within. I will go alone into the town. Now, do you notice that little square window in the citadel? When you see the Saltire hang there you will march in and meet me at the Bishop's Gate."
"Oh, Messire, what will you do?"
"Leave that to me," Prosper said, as he rode off.
He rode close to the moat and kept by it, making a half circuit of the walls. He had calculated on Galors' armour, and calculated well, for nobody molested him from the defenders' side. At the Bishop's Gate he reined up, and stood with his spear erect at the length of his arm.
"Who comes?" cried the sentry.
"Entra per me," growled Prosper, with a shot for Galors' sulky note.