"Forgive me, Edgar," cried Beatrice impulsively, placing her hand gently on the young esquires arm. "I was overhasty in my alarm. I am a warrior's daughter, and I will not play the coward again."
"'Tis nothing. Myself I shall not forgive," muttered Edgar. In his prostration he had sunk back against the wall, his arms resting on the haft of his great axe and his head bowed down upon them. For a few minutes he was silent with the silence of despair. Then he resolutely roused himself from his stupor. "Come," he said, "we are in no immediate danger here, except it be from stifling. Let us retreat back beneath the moat. It will be cooler there."
Headed by Peter with the torch, the little party threaded its way in dumb despair back into the deeper recesses of the tunnel, Edgar bearing the limp form of the insensible Jeannette. On arriving at the spot where the great iron-bound chest half-blocked the passage, Peter halted and proposed that they should seat themselves. Jeannette was laid upon the top of the box and Beatrice took her seat upon it, while Edgar and Peter stood at her side, conversing in low tones upon the hopeless situation in which they found themselves. The spot at which they had halted was, as near as they could judge, beneath the castle moat, and the air was far cooler than at the end towards the fire.
"At least they cannot reach us," said Edgar presently. "The fire which bars our escape equally bars their attack. If they have no desire to encounter us hand to hand beneath the ground, they will have to keep the fires burning night and day."
"That will not be difficult with the woods so close at hand," replied Peter, shaking his head. "They will know that after a day or two we shall be weakened by hunger and thirst."
"But if the priest liveth he will guess the reason of these great fires, and will gather men to harass De Brin. They will find it hard to maintain themselves."
"I fear the Father will be dead. When De Brin and his men swept across the broken drawbridge, doubtless he would head the peasants. Who so likely to be slain?"
"Hark!" exclaimed Beatrice suddenly. "Surely that is the sound of knocking I hear above my head?"
Both men ceased talking and listened intently.
A slow and measured beat could be heard distinctly. Even as they listened it seemed to increase in volume, until it sounded as though someone were striking the roof above their heads with a muffled sledge.