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 kn