All this, I remember, was done in a kind of desperate frenzy, in haste and confusion, with no plan or final purpose, but simply out of the instinct of self-preservation, which led me to do, from moment to moment, what I could to save our lives. I did not know whether there was another staircase to the tower, nor whether there were enemies above us; whether, indeed, enemies might not swarm in on us from a dozen entrances. I had no time to think of more than just this; that my staircase, of which I did know, must be held. I think I had stood there about a minute, breathing hard and listening to the din outside, which came to my ears a little softened by the thick walls round me--so much softened, at least, that I could hear my heart beating in the midst of it--when the Duchess came back to the door above. I could see her, there being a certain amount of light in the room behind her, but she could not see me. "What can I do?" she asked softly. I answered by a question. "Is he alive?" I muttered. "Yes; but hurt," she answered, struggling with a sob, with a fluttering of the woman's heart she had repressed so bravely. "Much hurt, I fear! Oh, why, why did we come here?" She did not mean it as a reproach, but I took it as one, and braced myself more firmly to meet this crisis--to save her at least if it should be any way possible. When she asked again "Can I do anything?" I bade her take my pike and stand where I was for a moment. Since no enemy had yet made his appearance above, the strength of our position seemed to hold out some hope, and it was the more essential that I should understand it and know exactly what our chances were.