As the words passed her lips there rose a sound of running feet, and through the open door at the far end of the hall burst in a score or over of armed men. Then at last Sir Andrew saw and understood. With a roar of rage like that of a wounded lion, he seized his daughter and dragged her back with him down the passage into the solar where a fire burned and lights had been lit ready for their retiring, flinging to and bolting the door behind them. “Swift!” he said, as he tore his gown from him, “there is no escape, but at least I can die fighting for you. Give me my mail.” She snatched his hauberk from the wall, and while they thundered at the door, did it on to him—ay, and his steel helm also, and gave him his long sword and his shield. “Now,” he said, “help me.” And they thrust the oak table forward, and overset it in front of the door, throwing the chairs and stools on either side, that men might stumble on them. “There is a bow,” he said, “and you can use it as I have taught you. Get to one side and out of reach of the sword sweeps, and shoot past me as they rush; it may stay one of them. Oh, that Godwin and Wulf were here, and we would still teach these Paynim dogs a lesson!” Rosamund made no answer but there came into her mind a vision of the agony of Godwin and of Wulf should they ever wake again to learn what had chanced to her and them. She looked round. Against the wall stood a little desk, at which Godwin was wont to write, and on it lay pen and parchment. She seized them, and as the door gave slowly inwards, scrawled: “Follow me to Saladin. In that hope I live on.—Rosamund.” Then as the stout door at length crashed in Rosamund turned what she had written face downwards on the desk, and seizing the bow, set an arrow to its string. Now it was down and on rushed the mob up the six feet of narrow passage. At the end of it, in front of the overturned table, they halted suddenly. For there before them, skull-emblazoned, shield on arm, his long sword lifted, and a terrible wrath burning in his eyes, stood the old knight, like a wolf at bay, and by his side, bow in hand, the beauteous lady Rosamund, clad in all her festal broideries. “Yield you!” cried a voice. By way of answer the bowstring twanged, and an arrow sped home to its feathers through the throat of the speaker, so that he went down, grabbing at it, and spoke no more for ever. As he fell clattering to the floor, Sir Andrew cried in a great voice: “We yield not to pagan dogs and poisoners. _A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy! Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!_” Thus for the last time did old Sir Andrew utter the warcry of his race, which he had feared would never pass his lips again. His prayer had been heard, and he was to die as he had desired.