s he would have died at the door,
died in ignorance. The comfort was the dead man's gift to him, and
now, in the paradox of nature, because of that comfort it would not be
so hard to follow him.

But if to die comforted would be less hard, there was something much
more than comfort to live for, and to La Mothe the odds did not seem
utterly hopeless. Three resolute men could surely hold the well hole
till succour came. Resolute? Much more than resolute--desperate.
Again he glanced aside at Ursula de Vesc. Had he not the best cause
the world holds to be resolute to desperation? Hugues had died for
love's sake, please God he would live for it.

CHAPTER XX

THE LAST STAND

Below the attack halted, but up the stairway came the noise of rough
laughter and rougher words, words which made Stephen La Mothe's blood
grow hot and his nerves tingle as, gritting his teeth, he stamped his
feet so that the girl might not hear them also. Resolute? Desperate?
Yes, much more than resolute, much more than desperate, and with much
more than a man's life to be lost. And all were of one mind. Follette
he was sure of, and at his right Blaise, the stable-lad, panted in
short breaths, swinging his unaccustomed weapon softly. "Damn them!"
La Mothe heard him say. "Will they never come?" and when the nine
minutes had crawled to twelve they came.

But not with a rush, not as those above had reckoned. The siege had
grown cautious. This time there was a system. Up, on the very edge of
the steps, broad, wide, and shallow for the easier carrying of heavy
loads upon the back, came the two with the palisades, up, until the
pickets were a full yard through the well-hole, but with those who held
them out of reach, and with a shout, the wood rasping the ancient
flagging, each swept a quarter circle. It was the work of an instant.
As the pickets crashed against the wall the voice from behind cried,
"Now lads!" and the rush came. There was the clang of iron-shod feet
on the stones, a glimmer in the half obscurity, and behind the pickets
the stairway bristled with steel.

"Praises be!" cried Blaise, and crouched on his heels. Down he leaned,
down, forward, and lunged clumsily. That, too, was the work of an
instant, an act concurrent with his cry, but when he straightened
himself a picket had dropped into the gloom, and he who held it lay
upon it, coughing and choking. "Rats!" said Blaise, slashing viciously
at the blade nearest