Slowly they made their way back to the summit, but as they came out upon it the Lady Tiphaine darted forward and caught her husband by the wrist.
"Bertrand," said she, "hush and listen! I have heard the voices of men all singing together in a strange tongue."
Breathless they stood and silent, but no sound came up to them, save the roar of the flames and the clamor of their enemies.
"It cannot be, lady," said Du Guesclin. "This night hath over wrought you, and your senses play you false. What men ere there in this country who would sing in a strange tongue?"
"Hola!" yelled Aylward, leaping suddenly into the air with waving hands and joyous face. "I thought I heard it ere we went down, and now I hear it again. We are saved, comrades! By these ten finger-bones, we are saved! It is the marching song of the White Company. Hush!"
With upraised forefinger and slanting head, he stood listening. Suddenly there came swelling up a deep-voiced, rollicking chorus from somewhere out of the darkness. Never did choice or dainty ditty of Provence or Languedoc sound more sweetly in the ears than did the rough-tongued Saxon to the six who strained their ears from the blazing keep:
We'll drink all together To the gray goose feather And the land where the gray goose flew.
"Ha, by my hilt!" shouted Aylward, "it is the dear old bow song of the Company. Here come two hundred as tight lads as ever twirled a shaft over their thumbnails. Hark to the dogs, how lustily they sing!"
Nearer and clearer, swelling up out of the night, came the gay marching lilt:
What of the bow? The bow was made in England. Of true wood, of yew wood, The wood of English bows; For men who are free Love the old yew-tree And the land where the yew tree grows.
What of the men? The men were bred in England, The bowmen, the yeomen, The lads of the dale and fell, Here's to you and to you, To the hearts that are true, And the land where the true hearts dwell.
"They sing very joyfully," said Du Guesclin, "as though they were going to a festival."
"It is their wont when there is work to be done."
"By Saint Paul!" quoth Sir Nigel, "it is in my mind that they come too late, for I cannot see how we are to come down from this tower."
"There they come, the hearts of gold!" cried Aylward. "See, they move out from the shadow. Now they cross the meadow. They are on the further side of the moat. Hola camarades, hola! Johnston, Eccles, Cooke, Harward, Bligh! Would ye see a fair lady and two gallant knights done foully to death?"
"Who is there?" shouted a deep voice from below. "Who is this who speaks with an English tongue?"
"It is I, old lad. It is Sam Aylward of the Company; and here is your captain, Sir Nigel Loring, and four others, all laid out to be grilled like an Easterling's herrings."
"Curse me if I did not think that it was the style of speech of old Samkin Aylward," said the voice, amid a buzz from the ranks. "Wherever there are knocks going there is Sammy in the heart of it. But who are these ill-faced rogues who block the path? To your kennels, canaille! What! you dare look us in the eyes? Out swords, lads, and give them the flat of them! Waste not your shafts upon such runagate knaves."
There was little fight left in the peasants, however, still dazed by the explosion, amazed at their own losses and disheartened by the arrival of the disciplined archers. In a very few minutes they were in full flight for their brushwood homes, leaving the morning sun to rise upon a blackened and blood-stained ruin, where it had left the night before the magnificent castle of the Seneschal of Auvergne. Already the white lines in the east were deepening into pink as the archers gathered round the keep and took counsel how to rescue the survivors.
"Had we a rope," said Alleyne, "there is one side which is not yet on fire, down which we might slip."
"But how to get a rope?"
"It is an old trick," quoth Aylward.