But the stalwart and muscular form of Oswald, encumbered as it was by heavy armour, made progress painfully slow. In the meantime, the Normans reversed their scaling ladders and slid down into the quadrangle, and came trooping after the fugitives. Wulfhere saw his task was hopeless, and with a cry of pain like a wounded deer he dropped his helpless burthen on the greensward, and, furious as some wild beast, sprang at the yelling foe, cutting down the foremost at a blow. Following up the others, who quailed before him, he quickly laid half a dozen corpses in a ghastly circle round his master. But there was no end to the stream of furious assailants who were fast surrounding him. "'Tis in vain!" he pitifully exclaimed. "Oh, had I here but a score of stout men to make a rampart of steel, we would defy the yelling crew! God forgive me for this coward's act, my master! I would gladly die with you, but I know I shall better do your will by reserving my worthless life for service to your followers." So saying, he bounded over the prostrate form of Oswald, and across the sward, mounting the half-dozen steps at the terrace entrance at a spring, and dashing through the open door. The Normans followed him in concert; but when it became a question of single file to pass the portal, without knowing whether Wulfhere was lurking within, why then they in "honour preferred one another," with the result that they one and all ceased following Wulfhere, and courageously returned to help their fellows to heap indignities upon the prostrate Earl. Meanwhile, the gates had been burst open and the Norman soldiers, camp followers and all, had pressed into the enclosure, Alice and Jeannette, with the women, bringing up the rear. "Whatever are they clambering and yelling so about, Jeannette? Is it the dead chieftain?" "I think so, my lady. They are like wolves worrying their prey." "It is a pity so brave a man should perish. If he be not dead I will beseech my father for his life; though I am afraid it will be to little purpose." "See, my lady, he is not dead; he is standing up." Oswald had recovered consciousness, and, stripped of his helmet, looked around, though deathly pale and half-dazed. "Do not kill him, men!" roared Vigneau. "We'll have some sport to-morrow, and then you may cut his throat if he survives." "Do you hear what that beast in human form is saying, Jeannette?" "It is horrible, my lady. Let us go away; I am quite sickened." "Stay a minute, Jeannette. Let us have a good look at him. How pale he is! But look at his noble countenance--handsome and expressive as a hero's should be! Such countenances have men only who live temperately and think purely. Contrast, Jeannette, the blotched and bleared countenance of Vigneau. There is a tell-tale and an index at once to the beastly life and foul imagination. How my heart revolts at the sight of him! I would prefer the touch of a vampire."