"Give me ten thousand men," quoth Colgran the free-lance, "by my bones I will take the place and bring the Maid out scatheless."
Prosper the Priest put in his plea.
"You are our torch," he said, "our beacon. Malgo is on the march; Godamar has massed behind the creeks of Thorney Isle. The country waits for you. Leave Gambrevault to Colgran."
And again the free-lance made his oath.
"Give me ten thousand men," quoth he, "by Peter's blood the place shall tumble in a month."
That same evening, as a last justification of his stubborn will, Fulviac sent forward a trumpeter under a white flag to parley with the besieged. The herald's company drew to the walls as the sun sank over the sea, setting the black towers in a splendour as of fire. Fulviac's troops were under arms in the meadows, their pikes glittering with sinister meaning into the purple of the coming night. The Lord of Gambrevault, in full harness, met the white flag, his knights round him, a crescent of steel.
Fulviac's trumpeter proclaimed his terms. They were insolently simple, surrender absolute with the mere blessings of life and limb, a dungeon for the lords, a proffer of traitorous service to the men. Yeoland the Saint was to be sent forth scatheless. The castle was to be garrisoned and held by the rebels.
Flavian laughed at the bluff insolence of the demand.
"Ha, sirs," he said, "we are the King's men here. Get you gone before my gate. Say to yonder traitor in the meadows, 'We quail not before scullions and at the frowns of cooks.'"
Thus, under the red canopy of the warring west, ended the parley at the gate of Gambrevault. The white flag tripped back behind the trenches; the castle trumpets blew a fanfare to grace its flight. Yeoland the Saint heard it, and her lamp of hope burnt dim.