shoot through the oblique but immovable loopholes of the
curtain, or even through the sloping crenelets of the higher towers.
On this the besiegers brought up mangonels, and set them hurling
huge stones at these woodworks and battering them to pieces.
Contemporaneously they built a triangular wooden tower as high as the
curtain, and kept it ready for use, and just out of shot.

This was a terrible sight to the besieged. These wooden towers had taken
many a town. They began to mine underneath that part of the moat the
tower stood frowning at; and made other preparations to give it a warm
reception. The besiegers also mined, but at another part, their object
being to get under the square barbican and throw it down. All this time
Denys was behind his mantelet with another arbalestrier, protecting the
workmen and making some excellent shots. These ended by earning him
the esteem of an unseen archer, who every now and then sent a winged
compliment quivering into his mantelet. One came and struck within an
inch of the narrow slit through which Denys was squinting at the moment.
"Peste," cried he, "you shoot well, my friend. Come forth and receive my
congratulations! Shall merit such as thine hide its head? Comrade, it
is one of those cursed Englishmen, with his half ell shaft. I'll not die
till I've had a shot at London wall."

On the side of the besieged was a figure that soon attracted great
notice by promenading under fire. It was a tall knight, clad in complete
brass, and carrying a light but prodigiously long lance, with which he
directed the movements of the besieged. And when any disaster befell the
besiegers, this tall knight and his long lance were pretty sure to be
concerned in it.

My young reader will say, "Why did not Denys shoot him?" Denys did shoot
him; every day of his life; other arbalestriers shot him; archers shot
him. Everybody shot him. He was there to be shot, apparently. But the
abomination was, he did not mind being shot. Nay, worse, he got at last
so demoralised as not to seem to know when he was shot. He walked his
battlements under fire, as some stout skipper paces his deck in a
suit of Flushing, calmly oblivious of the April drops that fall on his
woollen armour. At last the besiegers got spiteful, and would not waste
any more good steel on him; but cursed him and his impervious coat of
mail.

He took those missiles like the rest.

Gunpowder has spoiled war. War was always detrimental to t