Martin straightened himself, with a sudden shining of the eyes. He saw Mellis sitting her horse beside John Rich, pale, motionless, tragically calm. She looked up toward the tower, and Martin fancied that she smiled; he felt that his heart would break for her.
“If they would take me and let her go!”
Swartz scoffed at his madness.
“My Lord of Troy is no honey-pot, to catch flies and let them escape as they please. Have nothing to say to John Rich; let him blow his trumpet till the fellow’s cheeks burst.”
Martin stood forward, resting his hands on the pommel of his sword. John Rich hailed him.
“Hallo, there! Come down and open the gate. The game is played out.”
Martin Valliant’s eyes were fixed on Mellis’s face. He was wondering whether she despised him for not rushing out to strike a blow for her—whether she thought him a coward. Swartz had crouched down behind the wall, and was watching Martin narrowly.
“Steady, brother. That child has brave eyes and a fine heart. She will understand. Tell Rich to go to the devil.”
Martin stood like a statue, and Rich bellowed again:
“Have done with this fooling. Will you give us the place, or are we to take it?”