In all, including the bombard in the barbican, there were eleven pieces of ordnance, a score barrels of powder, steel caps, hauberks, and weapons of all descriptions. Unwilling to leave the booty where it might again fall into the hands of the Normans, the Constable made preparations to carry off the whole of the munitions of war.
Dragging long planks across the open ground, a party of archers returned to where the horses had been left. By bridging the pitfall, the steeds were led safely across the fatal trap, and in less than an hour were within the stronghold, where rough carts in abundance were ready to be loaded up with the spoil.
Meanwhile Raymond had not forgotten the unfortunate man-at-arms who had been captured with him in the first attempt to seize the Count. Aided by a couple of archers, he searched vainly for the secret oubliette, till at length he bethought him of the two peasants who had been taken earlier in the day.
These were brought before him, and without much difficulty were compelled to lead the way. In the floor of the lowest apartment the peasants pointed out a small door, almost invisible in the deep gloom. Procuring a torch, Raymond and the archers shot back the bolts, and on lifting the trapdoor, a dark, evil-smelling dungeon was disclosed, unlighted and almost unventilated. Mingled with the noise of scores of rats a low moaning was heard, and in the fitful glare of the torchlight a narrow circular hole could be distinguished in the centre of the dungeon, its mouth unprotected by a barrier of any kind.
"Art there, Robert?" asked the squire, his voice shaking with pity and emotion.
The only reply was another low moan, as of a human being in direst distress. Sending one of the archers back for assistance, Raymond impatiently waited by the yawning pit. The man soon returned, and with him four lusty men-at-arms, one of whom carried a coil of stout rope and two more torches.
Directing the men to lower him slowly and carefully, Raymond knotted one end of the rope under his arms and boldly descended, holding a flaming torch above his head. The light flickered on the slimy walls of the pit, which, as he descended, began to increase in size, till at length he reached the bottom of a deep, bottle-shaped cavity, the only approach to which being the narrow neck through which he had been lowered.
The floor was ankle-deep in filth and slime; and, by the aid of the torch, the squire saw, crouched in the corner, apparently heedless of the presence of his rescuer, the figure of a man.
Bending over him, Raymond failed at first to recognise his ill-fated companion-in-arms, for the soldier's face, instead of being the deep-bronzed, healthy colour that comes of a life in the open air, was of a ghastly greenish hue, and his eyes, dazzled by the glimmer of the torch, blinked with a peculiar vacant expression that suggested madness.
Finding that the man was too weak to stand the strain of the rope round his chest, Raymond, placing the torch on the ground, lifted him to his feet, and taking him in his arms, called out to those above to haul up. Shielding the soldier as well as he could from the rough sides of the shaft, the squire with his pitiful burden came slowly to the surface, where rough but kindly hands took charge of the rescued prisoner, who was little more than a corpse.