"A shorter ladder will do for this next mounting," whispered Giles Monson. "Then there is a wall, but sentries are seldom posted there."
Hardly had he spoken before a voice above them hailed in French:
"Who cometh there?"
A flight of arrows answered him, and no second question came down. Up went the ladder and on it the English climbed fast. The wall, when they reached it, was but a dozen feet high, and was hardly an obstacle. Beyond it Sir Henry halted until many men stood beside him. Then he spoke in a low tone.
"Pass the word," he said. "Pause not for aught, but follow me to the castle and the town gate. We must win that and let in the prince, though all die who are here."
He strode forward then, and ever in front of him went Giles Monson, his cap in his hand and his white hair flying.
Few lights were burning in any of the buildings, for it was long after curfew. There were no wayfarers along the narrow, winding streets through which, avoiding the middle of the town, Giles Monson guided the English. Hardly a weapon clanged, and no word was spoken, for every man knew that if an alarm were given too soon so small a force would be overwhelmed and all must die.
"Yon is the gate," whispered Giles at last. "'Tis a fort of itself, and it needs must have a strong guard."
"They are on the watch for foes from without," said Sir Henry. "Richard Neville, show thyself a good man-at-arms! Charge in at yonder portal with thy Irish, and we will form behind thee and press on to open the town gates and hold them."