“A rescue! a rescue! To the chapel, madame. There will be bloody work. Shut yourself in. I’ll bide here and watch.”
Hanotin’s men were crowding back under the arch of the gate, jostling each other, taken by surprise. Some were for meeting Bertrand upon the causeway, others for holding the tower and letting the portcullis fall. Hanotin, a giant with a face like raw meat, came pushing through the press, cursing his men, and shouldering them aside as a ship shoulders the waves.
“Out of the way! Out of the way! Let me get a glimpse at these gentlemen.”
He pushed through and had his desire—a vision of a wedge of shields and spears thrusting forward across the causeway.
Hanotin sprang back, brandishing his mace.
“Down with the grid! Curse these foul trees, the bridge is jammed.”
He swept his men back, and stood alone to hold the entry till they should have time to lower the portcullis. Bertrand saw that the need was imminent.
“St. Ives!—Du Guesclin!”
Hanotin snarled and swung his mace.
“Out, fools, out!”