Roche-de-Frêne fought with the wooden towers, threw down the grappling hooks and the bridges, thrust the stream back, broken and shattered into spray. It sallied forth against those who mined, beat down and set afire the shielding structures, drove from the field the sappers at the walls. It had some store of Greek fire and used it; it had engines of power and great catapults that sent stones with something of the force of cannon-balls against those towers and scaffolds of the foe. Roche-de-Frêne had archers and crossbowmen, none better, who from walls and gate-towers sent shafts in level flights against the high platforms, and in slant lines against Montmaure attacking in mass, against men upon scaling ladders. It had men whose trade was war, knight and squire, sergeant and footman, lord and Free Companion,—and men whose trade was not war, but who now turned warrior, burghers fighting for their liberties, their home and their work. But it had not the numbers that had Montmaure. It knew double-tides of fighting and watching. It had deep wells and an immemorially strong-flowing spring. But food was failing—failing fast! It had heroism of man, woman, and child. But hunger and watching and battle at last must wear the highest spirit down, or if not the spirit, the body with which it is clothed. It was late, late autumn—Saint Martin’s summer. The days that had passed since that short truce and meeting with Montmaure had laid shadows beneath the eyes of the Princess Audiart.... To-day had seen heavy fighting and slaughter. Now it was night, and Audiart in the White Tower knelt within the window and looked forth upon the castle buildings, courts, towers, and walls, and upon the roofs of the town, and the cathedral tower, and further to where showed red light of Montmaure’s vast encampment. She had been, through the day, upon the walls.... Her head sank upon her arms. “Jesu, and Mother Mary, and whoever is pitiful, I, too, am weary of slaughter! A better way—a better way—” She stayed so for some minutes; then, lifting her head, gazed again into the night. “Who has the key?” she said. “Duke Richard has the key.” Presently she stood up, rested hands upon the stone sill, drew a deep breath. Her lips parted, her glance swept the wide prospect, then lifted to the stars. “If I have wit enough and courage enough—that might be—” A colour crept into her face. “Was never a right way seemed not at first most hazardous and strange—so much more used are we to the wrong ways!” She looked at the clusters of stars, she looked at the town below that seemed to sigh in its restless and troubled sleep, she looked at the dimly seen, far mountains behind which sank the stars. The cool autumn air touched her brow. “Where all is desperate, be more desperate—and pass!” She stretched out her hand to the night. “I will do it!”