After this Foy could keep no count. Martin slashed with the sword, and when he found a chance Foy thrust with the pike, till at length there were none to thrust at, for this was more than the Spaniards had bargained. Two of them lay dead in the doorway, and others had been dragged or had tumbled down the ladder, while from the onlookers at the windows without, as they caught sight of them being brought forth slain or sorely wounded, went up shout upon shout of joy. “So far we have done very well,” said Martin quietly, “but if they come up again, we must be cooler and not waste our strength so much. Had I not struck so hard, I might have killed another man.” But the Spaniards showed no sign of coming up any more; they had seen enough of that narrow way and of the red swordsman who awaited them in the doorway round the corner. Indeed it was a bad place for attackers, since they could not shoot with arquebuses or arrows, but must pass in to be slaughtered like sheep at the shambles in the dim room beyond. So, being cautious men who loved their lives, they took a safer counsel. The tank beneath the shot-tower, when it was not in use, was closed with a stone cover, and around this they piled firewood and peats from a stack in the corner of the yard, and standing in the centre out of the reach of arrows, set light to it. Martin lay down watching them through a crack in the floor. Then he signed to Foy, and whispered, and going to the iron baths, Foy drew from them two large buckets of molten lead, each as much as a man could carry. Again Martin looked through the crack, waiting till several of the burners were gathered beneath. Then, with a swift motion he lifted up the trap-door, and as those below stared upwards wondering, full into their faces came the buckets of molten lead. Down went two of them never to speak more, while others ran out shrieking and aflame, tearing at their hair and garments. After this the Spaniards grew more wary, and built their fires round the oak piers till the flames eating up them fired the building, and the room above grew full of little curling wreaths of smoke. “Now we must choose,” said Martin, “whether we will be roasted like fowls in an oven, or go down and have our throats cut like pigs in the open.” “For my part, I prefer to die in the air,” coughed Foy. “So say I, master. Listen. We can’t get down the stair, for they are watching for us there, so we must drop from the trap-door and charge through the fire. Then, if we are lucky, back to back and fight it out.”