“Succour, succour, my trusty esquire,” cried Hepborne; “I have a life here to preserve dearer to me a thousand times than mine own.”
Sang came up to him as he reached the top of the only remaining ladder. To the esquire he hastily confided the care of Assueton, and, turning on the foe, again drove them before him, so as to give Sang leisure to descend with his burden; and then hastily returning to the spot where the ladder was, he discovered that it was broken, and saw Sang in the ditch beneath, endeavouring to extricate himself and the wounded knight from the bundles of straw and fascines among which they had fallen. The enemy were fast gathering behind, and he had no alternative. Selecting a place where the heaps in the ditch were highest, he sprang from the wall, and happily alighted almost uninjured.
Whilst he and his squire were busily employed in lifting Sir John Assueton from the ditch, their attention was attracted to the walls above them, where a desperate struggle was going on between two figures distinctly seen against the sky. But it was of short duration.
“Uve, uve! an she wonnot let her go, by St. Giles, but she shall go wi’ her,” cried Duncan MacErchar, who was one of them; and griping his enemy fast, he sprang with him over the battlements.
Duncan had by no means time to be so select in the choice of the spot where he was to alight as Sir Patrick Hepborne had been. But he took care to leap with his antagonist before him, and his doing so was the saving of his life, his fall being broken by the body of the wretch who participated in it, and who was crushed to death against the very bottom of the ditch, whilst [[421]]Duncan, though stunned, escaped with some considerable bruises, and immediately regaining his legs, assisted Sir Patrick and his esquire to carry off Sir John Assueton to the Scottish camp.
We have already apprised the reader that the brave knights were supported by two other individuals besides their esquires. One of these, it may be guessed, was the brave MacErchar. The other, when the little party was dispersed after their bold onset, unfortunately missed his way in attempting to return to the rallying point, and, being assailed by a crowd of his foes, was compelled to retreat before them, until he was stopped by a wall, under which he took shelter, and prepared himself for a desperate resistance.
“Yield thee, Scot,” cried some of the first who came up to him. “On him—Seize him,” cried a dozen of them at once.
“By St. Lowry, ’tis right well for ye Southrons to cry yield to ane honest Scotchman. But troth, I’ll tell ye it’s easier to say so to ane o’ my country than to gar him do it, and mair, when ye speak to the henchman o’ the Yearl o’ Moray himsel’,” cried Rory Spears; for it was he, no longer clad, indeed, in his fishing coat and otterskin cap, but armed as became the Earl of Moray’s henchman, and wielding a long pole-axe instead of his gaud-clip.
“Take him alive,” cried an officer who was present; “let not his life be taken, as you value your own. If he be of the Earl of Moray’s household, we may be the better for knowing some of his secrets.”
“Troth, ye’ll hae ill taking o’ me without taking my life too, my lads,” said Rory, swinging his pole-axe so cleverly around him that no one was disposed to risk approaching him.