the leaguer was drawn that night about the towers of gambrevault, and the castle stood clasped betwixt the watch-fires and the sea. fulviac's rebels, toiling from evening until dawn, banked and staked a rampart to close the headland. from the north alone could gambrevault be approached, precipices plunging south, east, and west to front the sea. athwart the grassy isthmus fulviac drew his works, running from cliff to cliff, brown earth-banks bristling with timber. mortars, bombards, basilics, and great catapults had been brought from gilderoy to batter the walls. redoubts, covered by strong mantlets, were established in the meadows. several small war galleys guarded the castle on the side of the sea.

nor was this labour permitted to pass unrebuked before the leaguered folk upon the headland. there were sallies, assaults, bloody tussles in the trenches, skirmishes upon the causeway. yet these fiercenesses brought no flattering boon to the besieged. the knights and men-at-arms were masterful enough with an open field to serve them, but behind their barricades fulviac's rebels held the advantage. the command went forth from modred the seneschal that there were to be no more sorties delivered against the trenches.

on the second day of the leaguer the cannonade began. bombard and mortar belched flame and smoke; the huge catapults strove with their gigantic arms; arbalisters wound their windlasses behind the ramparts. shot screamed and hurtled, crashed and thundered against the walls, bringing down mortar and masonry in rattling showers. the battlements of gambrevault spouted flame; archers plied their bows in bartisan and turret. a shroud of dust and smoke swirled about the place, the chaotic clamour of the siege sending the gulls wheeling and wailing from the cliffs.

on the very second day flavian was brought low by a shot hurling a fragment of masonry upon his thigh and bruising it to the bone. stiff and faint, he was laid abed in his own state room, unable to stir for the twinging tendons, loth enough to lie idle. modred, bluff, lusty smiter, took the command from him, and walked the walls. hourly he came in to his lord's chamber to tell of the cannonade and the state of the castle. even flavian from his cushions could see that the man's black face looked grim and sinister.

"how do they vex us?" was his question, as the thunder came to them from the meadows.

modred clinked his heels against the wainscotting of the window seat, and strove to sweeten his looks. he was not a man given to blandishing the truth.

"their damned bombards are too heavy for us. we are dumb."

"impossible!"

"sire, we shall have to hold gambrevault by the sword."

the man on the bed started up on his elbow, only to fall back again with a spasmodic twitching of the forehead.

"and our bombards?" he asked.

"are toppled off their trunnions."

"ha!"

"for the rest, sire, i have ordered our men to keep cover. the bowmen shoot passably. the outer battlements are swept."

"and the walls?"

modred grimaced and stroked his beard.

"there are cracks in the gate-house," quoth he, "that i could lay my fist in."

what goodlier fortune for a man than to lie bruised when love bears to him the bowl of dreams! what softer balm than the touch of a woman's hand! what more subtle music than her voice! the girl yeoland had betrayed a new wilfulness to the world, in that she now claimed as her guerdon the care of the man's heart. she was in and about his room, a shadow moving in the sunlight, a shaft of youth, supple and very tender. her eyes had a rarer lustre, her face more of the dawn tint of the rose. love stirred within her soul like the sound of angels psaltering on the golden battlements of heaven.

as she sat often beside him, flavian won the whole romance from her, gradual as glistening threads of silk drawn from a scarlet purse. she waxed very solemn over her tale, was timid at times, and exceeding sorrowful for all her passion. some shadowy fear seemed to companion her beside the couch, some wraith prophetic of a tragic end. she loved the man, yet feared her love, even as it had been a sword shimmering above his head. peril compassed them like an angry sea; she heard the bombards thundering in the meadows.

"ah, sire," she said to him one morning, as she thrust the flowers she had gathered in the garden into a brazen bowl, "i am heavy at heart. who shall pity me?"

he turned towards her on his cushions with a smile that was not prophetic of the tomb.

"do i weary you?"

"ah no, not that."

"why then are you sad?"

she held up a white hand in the gloom of the room, her hair falling like a black cloud upon her bosom.

"listen," she said to him.

"i am not deaf."

"the thunder of war."

"well, well, my heart, should i fear it?"

"it is i who fear."

"ah," he said, taking her hand into his bosom, "put such fears far from you. we shall not end this year in dust."

a week passed and the man was on the walls again, bold and ruddy as a youthful jove. seven days had gone, swelling with their hours the great concourse in the meadows. pikes had sprouted on the hills like glistening corn, to roll and merge into the girding barrier of steel. the disloyal south had gathered to fulviac before gambrevault like dust in a dry corner in the month of march. a great host teemed betwixt the river and the cliffs. through all, the rack and thunder of the siege went on, drowning the sea's voice, flinging a storm-cloud over the stubborn walls. in gambrevault men looked grim, and muttered of succour and the armies of the king.

yet flavian was content. he had taken a transcendent spirit into his soul; he lived to music; drank love and chivalry like nectar from the gods. the woman's nearness made each hour a chalice of gold. he possessed her red heart, looked deep into her eyes, put her slim hands into his bosom. her voice haunted him like music out of heaven. he was a dreamer, a lotos-eater, whose brain seemed laden with all the perfumes of the east. ready was he to drain the purple wine of life even to the dregs, and to find death in the cup if the fates so willed it.

and fulviac?

war had held a poniard at his throat, turning him to the truth with the threat of steel. grim and implacable, he stalked the meadows, bending his brows upon the towers of gambrevault. this girl of the woods was no more a dream to him, but supple love, ardent flesh, blood-red reality. lean, leering thoughts taunted the lascivious fears within his brain. his moods were silent yet tempestuous. gambrevault mocked him. vengeance burnt in his palm like a globe of molten iron.

his dogged temper roused his captains to strenuous debate. fifty thousand men were idle before the place, and the siege dragged like a homily. their insinuations were strong and strident. the countryside was emptying its broad larder; malgo and godamar of the fens were marching from east and west. ten thousand men could leaguer gambrevault. it behoved fulviac to pluck up his spears and march on lauretia, proud city of the king.

for a season fulviac was stubborn as gambrevault itself. his yellow eyes glittered, and he tossed back his lion's mane from off his forehead.

"till the place is ours," so ran his dogma, "i stir never a foot. see to it, sirs, we will put these skulkers to the sword."

his captains were strenuous in retort.

"you mar the cause," said sforza over the council-board, thin-lipped and subtle.

"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.

that night fulviac paced the meadows, his eyes scanning the black mass upon the cliffs. dark as was his humour, reason ruled him at the climax, powerful to extort the truth. primæval instincts were strong in him, yet he put them back that hour out of his heart. robust and vigorous, he trampled passion under foot. at dawn his orders went forth to the captains and the council.

"colgran shall command. ten thousand men shall serve him. let him storm the place, grant no terms, spare yeoland the maid alone. let him butcher the garrison, and let the ruin rot. when all have been put to the sword, let him march and join me before the city of lauretia."