Nearer and nearer came the sound of conflict, till Raymond and his comrades perceived the red-crossed surcoats of the Englishmen pressing back the discomfited Genoese. At length, unable to withstand the flanking fire of arrows, the enemy fled past out of bowshot of the Tower—all save one, whom Raymond recognised as the son of the King of Sicily. Burning to achieve a further deed of honour, Raymond threw open the door and rushed out to intercept the mailclad knight, who, with sweeping strokes of his sword, kept the men-at-arms at a respectful distance. But the lad was forestalled. A huge countryman, who had lost his all in the sack of the town, had crept behind the Prince, and, with a swinging blow of a massive club, smote the Italian behind the knees.
With a snarl of rage and pain the Prince fell to the ground, and, with a shout of triumph, his assailant stood over him with his club upraised to give the fatal blow. Finding further resistance impossible, the knight dropped his sword.
"Je me rends!" he exclaimed. "Je vous donnerai rançon!"
"Yea, I know thou art a Françon," thundered the Englishman, misunderstanding the Prince's appeal for mercy, "and therefore thou shalt die!" And, notwithstanding a warning shout from Raymond and several of the Englishmen, the club descended with tremendous force, and the Italian lay dead upon the ground.
"I'll trouble thee to mind thy own business, my master!" hissed the countryman, turning fiercely on Raymond.
"But he was a gentleman of quality. He surrendered to thee, and he was worth a heavy ransom!"
"Ransom, forsooth!" rejoined the man, in a frenzy. "What ransom can atone for a wife and five children slain? Speak not to me of ransom!" And, shouldering his club, the man rushed off in pursuit of the fugitives as they hastened towards the Water Gate.
Beaten back at every point, the invaders crowded on board their galleys, and during the embarkation the slaughter was greater; for, from the walls, as well as from the shore, a heavy fire of arrows was hailed upon them by the infuriated townsmen.
At length, with the exception of a few galleys that, caught by the falling tide, were burned and their crews slaughtered, the hostile ships withdrew, and, with a steady north-west breeze, bore away down Southampton Water, leaving behind them a half-burned and pillaged town—the terrible penalty of unpreparedness!
After the mêlée Raymond returned with the remnant of the Constable's detachment to the Tower they had held so well, and, to his surprise and delight, found his father awaiting him, though Redward hardly recognised his son. Stained with his own blood and the blood of the Genoese, covered with dust and grime from head to foot, Raymond looked a very different person from the gentle youth of three months back.