“And you, Hans Broadfoot, and you, Joachim the Smith, except you surrender yourselves ere midnight, your brothers, whom I hold prisoners, have their feet wedged into split logs, and those logs most duly enkindled. Therefore, learn wisdom swiftly.”
Whereupon two men-at-arms, who had been loudest and bravest for a fierce defence, became of a sudden thoughtful.
“And finally,” wound up the Graf, “I do counsel that you kindle no torch nor fire upon the battlement; for I have placed Jack, Hodge, and Giles with twelve more picked English bowmen under your walls. Their eyes are like cats’, and their cloth-yard shafts are the swiftest messengers to the Devil.”
So with a dry laugh away went the chief into the dark, leaving the defenders as helpless as caged rats who see the farmer come to drown them.
There was nothing to be done. The long racks of lances in the great Waffensaal were mockery. No hands to wield them! The Wartburg was strong, but there was no donjon, separate from the outer hold, where a few desperate spirits could prolong resistance. Besides, succour was absolutely impossible. Before midnight, Hans and Joachim decided that they could not let their brothers be grilled just because they desired to have their throats cut at Ulrich’s side in the morning. A little after midnight Michael killed a man who had tried to drop a rope from the battlement. Two hours after dawn, Ulrich, who had lain down, after leaving three men watching at the postern, returned and found only Franz.
“Where are the others?” asked the Baron.
“Deserted like the rest.”
“And why not you?”
“Call me ‘Ram’s Pate’ an you will; I can still die with my master.”
My Lord Baron had a choking in his throat. He gave Franz his mail-clad hand, then ordered him to summon Michael.