Gervase had lost sight of Simon Sproule in the melée, and, indeed, had altogether ceased to think of him, having business enough of his own to attend to at present. As yet the fortune of the fight hung in the balance. Back to back, and shoulder to shoulder, stood the men of the garrison, handling their muskets and pikes with the steadiness and precision of veterans. Never since the siege began and the first shot had been fired, had there been a fight like this. It was dry work and warm work, and Gervase felt his throat baked like a kiln. He heard some of the men crying round him for water and saw them go staggering, faint and exhausted, to the rear. And though Gervase did not see it there was help for them there. The women of the city, who had been watching with anxious hearts from the walls, could bear the suspense no longer, and regardless of the bullets and cannon shot from across the river, had come down to their aid with food and drink. It was even said, and the chroniclers record it with a touch of pride, that they took their share in the conflict, and fought with stones with as bold a heart as the stoutest among the men. Certain it is that they put new life into the weary fellows who were tired of hacking at the steel breastplates and head-pieces, and who for the most part had not tasted food since the evening before. It seemed to Gervase that the slaughter of horses and brave men would never cease. No sooner was one down than another had taken his place, hewing for his life at those pikes that would not bear back an inch. “Stand close and strike home,” a voice would cry, and a little knot of horsemen went rolling to the ground. There was now no hope of escape for them. A dense phalanx of pikemen and musketeers had drawn between them and the entrance to the lines. Back to back each man fought only for his life. No quarter was given or asked, but each man went down where he stood. For nearly two hours by the sun the battle had been raging, and the end was now at hand. Gervase had been carried in the melée down toward the river, and was making his way back toward the ramparts among the slaughtered horses and dead and wounded men, when he saw half a dozen pikemen surrounding a dismounted horseman, who was making gallant play with his sword. Anxious to save his life Gervase was about to interfere, when he heard the sound of his voice raised in disdain of his assailants; “Five to one! _ventre de Dieu_, I care not for you all. A gentleman of France has never learned to yield.” It was the voice of his friend De Laprade. Gervase was just in time; another minute and he would have been too late. Pushing his way into their midst, he warded off a blow that was aimed at the Vicomte, and loudly commanded his assailants to forbear. Covered as he was with blood and grime, De Laprade did not at first recognize him, but still stood on the defensive.