In the glare of the torchlight he saw the Frenchman's arm raised to deal a coup-de-grâce, but with an exclamation of surprise the man checked the descending knife. A thousand flashing lights danced before Geoffrey's eyes, and with a groan he lost consciousness.
When the young squire came to his senses he found himself lying on a rough pallet in a darkened room. It was now morning. From without came the sullen roar of artillery, mingled with the shouts, shrieks, and cries of the combatants, showing that the assault was being pushed home.
By degrees Geoffrey remembered the events of the previous night—the opening of the countermine, the grim and terrible struggle in the subterranean depths, and his own misfortune. He had a vivid recollection of the arresting of the descending knife of his adversary, but beyond that his memory failed him. Why was he thus spared? Where was he, and by whose agency had he been brought hither?
But the lad's throbbing brain could not suggest a reason. In vain he strove to collect his thoughts, till with a groan of pain and mental anguish he turned himself on his couch. Then he became aware that his shoulder had been dressed, and that a wet bandage had been tied round his head.
Presently, worn out with utter exhaustion, the squire fell into a troubled sleep.
When he awoke the sounds of conflict had died away. A slight murmur in the room caused him to turn his face towards the door. He was not alone. Standing on the threshold was a man dressed in a leathern jacket and close-fitting iron cap, while above his right shoulder projected the stirrup and part of the steel bow of an arbalist.
In spite of his dress and equipment, Geoffrey recognized the man; it was Gaston le Noir, the pilot of La Broie.
"Art awake, young sir?" quoth the Norman. "I trust thou wilt soon be thyself once more."
"How came I here, Gaston?" asked Geoffrey.