"Art alone?" asked the colonel.
"Yes, save for a half-drowned rebel," replied Granville, with a slight laugh, and fearing no surprise, we thereupon threw open the postern.
The next instant my companion came into the torchlight, pale, drenched to the skin, and with blood streaming from a cut on his forehead, while with him he brought the insensible body of a man, whose booted legs trailed heavily over the stone cobbles.
"Do what you can for the rogue," he said breathlessly, for the man, cased in breastplate and leather coat, was no light weight.
"Art hurt?" I asked anxiously.
"'Tis but naught," he replied, "though I would fain get rid of these wet clothes."
While changing his garments he told us of what occurred after he had been dragged over the wall. Fortunately, he had been thrown clear of the ground, and, still gripping his foe, he had fallen headlong into the moat, which at that place was barely five feet in depth.
With the shock of the sudden plunge the pikeman had relaxed his grip, and, weighted down by his armour and accoutrements, he would have surely been drowned had not Ralph held on to him and dragged his senseless body to the edge of the moat. Keeping perfectly still in the darkness, with the water up to his neck, Granville allowed the rest of the discomfited rebels to recross the moat and make their way back to their camp. Then, directly everything was quiet, he emerged from his hiding-place, dragged the still insensible pikeman to the postern, and regained the shelter of the walls.
The rest of the night passed without incident, but next morning a tangle of broken ladders showed that the scalers had all but succeeded in effecting an entry.
Then the question arose what was to be done with our prisoner? He had now recovered, and seemed grateful to us for his good treatment.