The afternoon brought another messenger, who confirmed the evil tidings, but was in hope that the prince, yet undefeated and then rampaging on the hill amongst the baggage, might retrieve the fortune of the day. When sunset drew nigh many of the garrison of Walderne betook themselves to the elevation on which the church is placed, whence they could see the Castle of Lewes through an opening, and watched, fearing to see the bale fire blaze, which should bid them all flee for their lives, unless they were prepared to defend the castle, to be a refuge in case their lord might survive and come to find shelter amongst them. On this point there were diverse opinions. A waggon had gone out in the early morning to collect forage and provisions by way of blackmail—at this moment it was seen approaching the gateway below. The sun had set, and the shades of evening were falling fast. All at once a single voice cried, “Look! the fire!” and the speaker pointed with his finger. The eyes of all present followed his gesture, and they saw a bright spot of light arise on the summit of the downs, distant some twelve miles. “It is the signal. All is lost! The rebels have won, and we must fly for our lives.” “They may be merciful.” “Nay, we have too black a name in the Andredsweald. We should have to answer for every peasant we have hanged or hen roost we have robbed.” “That would never do. By ’r lady, what injustice! Would they be so bad as that?” “We will not wait to see.” All at once loud outcries arose from the castle below. They looked aghast, for it was the sound of fierce strife and dread dismay. What could it be? They started to run to the help of their comrades, when a thousand cries, a wild war whoop, burst from the arches of the forest and in the dim twilight they saw numberless forms gliding over the short space which separated the castle from the wood. “The merrie men!” “The outlaws!” “The wild men of the woods!” The discomfited troopers paused—turned tail—fled— leaving their comrades to their fate, whatever it might be. Let us see. The waggon aforesaid had approached the gateway in the most innocent manner. It creaked over the drawbridge. It was already beneath the portcullis, when the driver cut the traces and thrust a long pole amidst the spokes of the wheel. At the same instant a score of men leapt out, who had been concealed beneath the loose hay. All was alarm and confusion. The few defenders of the castle were overpowered and slain, for the gross treachery practised upon the “merrie men” a few days earlier had hardened their hearts and rendered them deaf to the call for pity or mercy. The few women who were in the castle fled shrieking to their hiding places. The men died fighting. “To the dungeons! Show us the way to the dungeons, and we give you your life,” cried their leader—Kynewulf—to an individual whose bunch of keys attached to his girdle showed his office.