“Please God. The torches will not show the farther bank.” “How you can swim!” “I always loved this side stroke. I could beat my brother in a race.” Her whiteness played near him under the black swirl of the water. “This way. The bank is low by the orchard; we can land there. That man! I was forgetting him.” “Swartz?” “Yes.” Her sudden, sensitive trepidation thrilled him. He found that he had forgotten Swartz. “Swartz is in the woods over yonder. He swam across with me. It was his horn that you heard. We owe—this—to him.” “What! He is on our side now?” “Yes.” “That is noble.” They reached the shallows just as Fulk de Lisle’s torches came flaring to the landward bank. The men could see nothing but ripples; the light did not carry to the island. One of the fellows hurled his torch out into the darkness at a venture. It kissed the water, threw out a momentary radiance, and went out. Martin was up the bank, and reaching for Mellis’s hands. They heard Fulk de Lisle cursing. “Martin, we have fooled them.” She came out to him like a child, dim, dripping, exultant. Her hands held his without shame. “Mellis.” He threw the wet cloak over her, but she cast it off. “Not that clammy thing. The night is warm, and I am all aglow.” She put up her hands, and in a second her hair came clouding down. “What now? Dear man, they will be mad. You must get your harness and stand ready.” Martin was moving away when new sounds came out of the darkness of the night. A horn blared in the woods; a man screamed in agony; there was the noise of men running, and shouting as they ran. Martin turned and looked across the water. “Listen!” Mellis was at his side. “Did you hear that cry? ‘Richmond! Richmond!’ It is John Falconer.” A man in armor, whose horse was half unmanageable, blundered out into the light of the fires. It was John Rich. He waved his sword, and shouted to Fulk de Lisle, “To us! To us! We are attacked.” Fulk de Lisle’s torches went tossing up the hill; but before he and his men reached the beech wood, the fight came tumbling out like a drove of swine. John Rich was down with an arrow through his throat, and his horse went charging straight at the torches. Fulk de Lisle caught the beast by the bridle, swung himself into the saddle, and snatched a spear from one of his men. “Troy! Troy! Hold together, lads!”