Fulk had left three spare torches in the solar. He called to Isoult, bidding her throw them down, and as he waited he could hear Merlin cursing his men outside the porch.
“What, eight to one, and no fight left in you!”
They answered sullenly.
“The man is a devil.”
“And that harness of his is too good.”
“As for the woman—hell take her!—she shoots like Robin of Sherwood.”
Fulk kindled fresh torches and set them in the brackets, and, returning to the stairway, climbed over the wreckage and the dead men, and sat down on the topmost step.
“Well fought! well fought!”
She came and knelt behind him, her bow laid ready.
“Those arrows of yours saved us. By Heaven, I am thirsty.”