Beatrice craned her neck to see, just in time to catch the first glimpse of the great rush of the peasantry which followed closely upon the battering-in of the gates. A confused medley of fiercely-fighting men was all she could make out for some minutes, but presently, as the defenders were driven back inch by inch towards the courtyard, two figures began to stand out from the press, and she recognized with a thrill of astonishment and joy--Edgar Wintour and his servant, Peter! De Maupas had lied--and they were alive and free! Then might not Sir John also----? The fight at the gates was growing in intensity, and all her thoughts became concentrated on the exciting scene. Would they win a way through? Beatrice was a knight’s daughter and could gauge a warrior’s powers at a glance. She could see that the real strength of the attack lay in Edgar and Peter alone, and that the ill-armed peasantry, brave though they were, could make little impression on the mail-clad and well-disciplined men-at-arms. Nevertheless she felt, with a certainty that surprised her, that victory would at last reward the attackers and that the castle would be won. She seemed to feel that one who could play such a part as Edgar Wintour in the lists of Bordeaux was not born to be defeated here. But see!--the attackers were gathering for a last leap forward--Edgar had raised his battle cry--Hurrah! the defenders were fleeing headlong down the courtyard, and the castle was won---- Ere Beatrice could cry aloud in the joy of victory, a sudden fearful change swept over the scene. From the roof of the donjon, somewhere above her head, a burning hail of molten lead swept down, and the cries of victory were quenched and smothered in a louder burst of screams and wails. So dreadful were the anguished cries of many of the poor creatures, scorched and withered by the burning blast, that Beatrice, completely unnerved, cowered down upon the floor and wept. Jeannette replaced her at the lattice and, with many ejaculations of disappointment, told of the charge of the armour-clad horsemen and the defeat and destruction of the broken remnants of the gallant peasants. Of Edgar and Peter she could see nothing. Knowing how loath they would be to flee, Beatrice felt, with a crushing sense of sorrow and disappointment, that even if they had escaped the showers of molten lead they must of a certainty have been overwhelmed and slain by the charging horsemen. She was aroused from her prostration by another cry from Jeannette, who had turned from the window and was hearkening, not to the clangour outside, but to a noise that had attracted her attention within the donjon. "It must be De Maupas," she cried excitedly. "I hear footsteps--doubtless it is De Maupas returning to press his suit now that the peasants are destroyed?"