When they had to go down to supper, the younger Baron received them with the news--‘So, ladies, the Duke has been shouting his threats at us, but this castle is too hard a nut for the like of him.’
‘I have seen others crack their teeth against it,’ said his father; and they both laughed, a hoarse derisive laugh.
The ladies vouchsafed not a word till they were allowed to retire to their chamber.
They listened in the morning for the sounds of an assault, but none came; there was absolutely nothing but an occasional hum of voices and clank of armour. When summoned to the mid-day meal, it was scanty.
‘Ay,’ said the elder Baron, we shall have to live hard for a day or two, but those outside will live harder.’
‘Till they fall out and cut one another’s throats,’ said his son. ‘Fasting will not mend the temper of Hans of Schlingen and Michel au Bec rouge.’
‘Or till Banget descends on him for meddling on Lorraine ground,’ added old Balchenburg. ‘Eat, lady,’ he added to Jean; ‘your meals are not so large that they will make much odds to our stores. We have corn and beer enough to starve out those greedy knaves outside!’
Poor Jean was nearly out of her senses with distress and uncertainty, and being still weak, was less able to endure. She burst into violent hysterical weeping, and had to be helped up to her own room, where she sometimes lay on her bed; sometimes raged up and down the room, heaping violent words on the head of the tardy cowardly German; sometimes talking of loosing Skywing to show they were in the castle and cognisant of what was going on; but it was not certain that Skywing, with the lion rampant on his hood, would fly down to the besiegers, so that she would only be lost.
Eleanor, by the very need of soothing her sister, was enabled to be more tranquil. Besides, there was pleasure in the knowledge that Sigismund had come after her, and there was imagination enough in her nature to trust to the true knight daring any amount of dragons in his lady’s cause. And the lady always had to be patient.
Then long and loud the victor shout From turret and from tower rang out; The rugged walls replied. SCOTT, Lord of the Isles.
It was the early twilight of a summer’s morning when Ringan crept up to the shelter of pine branches under which George Douglas was sleeping, after hotly opposing Gebhardt, who had nearly persuaded his master that retreat was inevitable, unless he meant to be deserted by more than half his men.