so fulviac with his host passed northwards from gambrevault, leaving colgran and his ten thousand to guard the trenches. flavian saw the black columns curl away over the green slopes, their pikes glittering against the blue fringe of the horizon, their banners blowing to the breeze. the red pavilion stood no longer in the meadows; the man on the black horse rode no more behind the barricades. ominous was the marching of the host over the hills, a prophecy of many battles before the king's men could succour gambrevault.
the gate-house stood in ruins, a shattered pile of masonry barriering the causeway from the meadows. the outer curtain wall on the north had been pierced between two towers; the stone-work crumbled fast, opening a gradual breach to the rebel sea dammed behind the trenches. the battlements were rent and ruinous; many a turret gaped and tottered. still the bombards thundered, hurling their salvos of shot against the place, belching flame even through the night, while the arms of the great slings toiled like giant hands in the dark.
as for the girl yeoland, her joy was dim and flickering, mocked with constant prophecies of woe. the sounds of the siege haunted her perpetually. shafts wailed and whistled, bombards roared, the walls reeked and cracked. a corner in the garden under the yew walk was the single nook left her open to the blue hope of heaven. the clamour of the leaguer woke a hundred echoes in her heart. above all shone the man's strong face and passionate eyes; above the moon, the stars, the blue vault of day, death spread his sable wings, a cloud of gloom.
on the sixteenth day of the siege, colgran made an assault in force upon the ruins of the gate-house. despite its chaotic state, flavian clung to the ruin, and held the stormers at bay. thrice colgran's rebels advanced to the attack, and came hand-to-hand with the defenders over the crumbling piles of stone; thrice they were beaten back and driven to retreat upon their trenches. colgran renounced the gate-house as impregnable; the slings and bombards were turned upon the outer wall to widen the breach already made therein.
it was plain enough even to yeoland that the siege was bearing slowly yet surely against gambrevault. more than half a month had passed, and still no succouring spears shone upon the hills, no sail upon the sea. poor food and summer heat, the crowding of the garrison had opened a gate to fever and disease. she saw the stern and moody faces of the soldiery, their loyalty that took fresh and hectic fire from the courage of their lord. she saw the broken walls and ruined battlements, and heard the rebels shouting in their trenches.
as the man's peril grew more real and significant, a fear more vehement entered into her heart. sleep left her; she began to look white and weary, with dark shadows under her eyes. the man's warm youth accused her like a tree that should soon be smitten by the axe. his fine heroism was a veritable scourge, making the future full of discords, a charnel-house glimmering with bleached bones. she began to know how closely their lives were mingled, even as wine in a cup of gold. he was lord and husband to her in the spirit. her red heart quaked for him like the shivering petals of an autumn rose.
on the day of the assault upon the gate-house, he came back to her wounded in the arm and shoulder. he was faint, but brave and even merry. she would suffer none to come in to him, as he sat in a carved chair in her room that opened on the garden. the sight of blood when harness and gamboison were taken from the caked wounds quickened her fears into a fever of self-torture. she bathed the wounds and dressed them with fragrant oil and linen. twilight filled the room, and it was not till her tears fell upon his hand that the man found that she was weeping.
he drew her towards him with sudden great tenderness, as she knelt and looked into his face. her eyes swam with tears, her lips quivered.
"my life, why do you weep?"
she started away from him with sudden strength, and stood by the window, trembling.
"give me my armour and my banner," she said; "let me ride to the trenches and barter terms by my surrender. sire, let me go, let me go."
he looked at her sadly under his brows, with forehead wrinkled.
"you would leave me?"
"ah yes, to save you from the sword. is it easy for me to ask you this?"
"you crave more than i can give."
"no, no."
"i cannot surrender you."
"and for love, you would doom all gambrevault!"
"ah!" he cried, "i am wounded, and you would wound me the more."
she gave a whimper of pain, ran to him, and crept into his arms. as her sobs shook her, he bent many times and kissed her hair.
"weep not for me," he said; "even when the end comes no harm can touch you. i cannot parley with these wolves; there are women and children under my roof; should i open my gates to a savage mob?"
"this is your doom," she said to him.
"i take it, child, from heaven."
she wept no more, for a richer heroism took fire within her heart. she knelt to the man while he held her face betwixt his hands, bent over her, and kissed her forehead.
"courage, courage, what is death!"
"my god, to lose you."
"there, am i not flesh and blood? god knows, i would rather have death than give you to these vultures."
she knelt before him with her face transfigured.
"and death, death can touch me also."
该作者其它作品
《the red saint》
