That night Fulviac paced the meadows, his eyes scanning the black mass upon the cliffs. Dark as was his humour, reason ruled him at the climax, powerful to extort the truth. Primæval instincts were strong in him, yet he put them back that hour out of his heart. Robust and vigorous, he trampled passion under foot. At dawn his orders went forth to the captains and the council. "Colgran shall command. Ten thousand men shall serve him. Let him storm the place, grant no terms, spare Yeoland the Maid alone. Let him butcher the garrison, and let the ruin rot. When all have been put to the sword, let him march and join me before the city of Lauretia." XXXIII So Fulviac with his host passed northwards from Gambrevault, leaving Colgran and his ten thousand to guard the trenches. Flavian saw the black columns curl away over the green slopes, their pikes glittering against the blue fringe of the horizon, their banners blowing to the breeze. The red pavilion stood no longer in the meadows; the man on the black horse rode no more behind the barricades. Ominous was the marching of the host over the hills, a prophecy of many battles before the King’s men could succour Gambrevault. The gate-house stood in ruins, a shattered pile of masonry barriering the causeway from the meadows. The outer curtain wall on the north had been pierced between two towers; the stone-work crumbled fast, opening a gradual breach to the rebel sea dammed behind the trenches. The battlements were rent and ruinous; many a turret gaped and tottered. Still the bombards thundered, hurling their salvos of shot against the place, belching flame even through the night, while the arms of the great slings toiled like giant hands in the dark. As for the girl Yeoland, her joy was dim and flickering, mocked with constant prophecies of woe. The sounds of the siege haunted her perpetually. Shafts wailed and whistled, bombards roared, the walls reeked and cracked. A corner in the garden under the yew walk was the single nook left her open to the blue hope of heaven. The clamour of the leaguer woke a hundred echoes in her heart. Above all shone the man’s strong face and passionate eyes; above the moon, the stars, the blue vault of day, death spread his sable wings, a cloud of gloom. On the sixteenth day of the siege, Colgran made an assault in force upon the ruins of the gate-house. Despite its chaotic state, Flavian clung to the ruin, and held the stormers at bay. Thrice Colgran’s rebels advanced to the attack, and came hand-to-hand with the defenders over the crumbling piles of stone; thrice they were beaten back and driven to retreat upon their trenches. Colgran renounced the gate-house as impregnable; the slings and bombards were turned upon the outer wall to widen the breach already made therein.