_ CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE WAR-CRY
The whistle in front and the sound of following horsemen had but one meaning for Denis, and that was danger; and there was a movement common to nearly everyone in bygone days when danger was afoot, and that was to throw the right hand across the body in search of the hilt of the sword with which every traveller was armed.
It was involuntary then that, upon hearing the whistle and the trampling hoofs, Denis tried to draw his sword, but only uttered a faint cry of pain, for nerve and muscle had during the past few hours stiffened and made him more helpless than before, so that his arm sank back into its sling, but with the hand sufficiently free to receive the reins, which he passed across, thus leaving his left hand at liberty for his dagger.
"Hah!" said the King. "They are not fools. They have chosen a likely place for their trap, and we have walked right in. Well, gentlemen, we don't surrender. Which is it to be--retreat or advance?"
"Advance!" cried the young men, in one breath, excitedly, and it sounded like one voice.
"Draw, then, and forward," cried the King. "You, Saint Simon, guard Denis on the left; I shall have the honour of forming his right flank. But no desultory fighting. We advance and keep together as one man with one aim--to pass through the enemy, however many they may be. Forward!"
Denis writhed at his helplessness, as in obedience to a touch of the spur the three horses sprang forward, kept in the centre of the dark road, and broke at once into a hand gallop; and for some fifty yards the way seemed perfectly clear.
Then all at once the route was barred by a number of men who sprang from each side, yelling and shouting, while from behind the trampling of horses came nearer, and the advance was checked; for apparently with reckless bravery men rushed out of the darkness to seize the horsemen's reins, with the result that the King struck at the nearest a downward blow with the hilt of his sword, which took effect full in the man's face, so that he sank with a groan, while, drawing back his arm, the King's second movement was to give point, running the next man through the shoulder, and he fell back.
Saint Simon's actions were much the same, but in reverse, for he thrust first, and equally successfully; while Denis sat supine, the feeling upon him strong that he was a helpless heavy log to his companions, and in their way.
So successful was the resistance to the attack that for the moment the way seemed open, and the boy's breast began to throb with excitement as he felt that they had won. But they had only dealt with four, and as they were urging on their horses once again at least a dozen were ready to stay their progress, while with a loud shout of triumph four mounted men came up in their rear to hem the trio in.
"Give point! Give point!" roared the King, setting the example, and every thrust seemed to tell; but where one enemy went down there seemed to be three or four more to take his place, and in the darkness there was a _melee_ of writhing, struggling men hanging on to the panting, snorting horses and regardless of the keen steel, striving to drag the wielders down.
"It's all over with us," thought Denis, and a chill of despair seemed to clutch his heart, as he rose in his stirrups and, dagger in hand, strove, but in vain, to give some aid to his two defenders, who were growing breathless with their exertions and hampered and overpowered by their foes.
The horses, too, were becoming frantic, and reared and plunged, greatly to the riders' disadvantage, but advantage too, for more than one of the assailants fell back from the blows struck by their hoofs, to be trampled the next moment under foot; and then amidst yells, threats, and savage cries, there was a fresh shout of triumph, for on either side the defenders' arms were held, and but for the way in which the well-trained horses pressed together, both the King and Saint Simon would have been pulled from their saddles.
Just at this crucial moment, in the midst of the lull which followed the triumphal yell, there was the loud trampling of hoofs upon the hard road in front, the shouting of a war-cry--"France! France!"--seemed to cut through the darkness, and with a rush a single horseman looking like a dark shadow dashed down upon the group, scattering, so to speak, with wondrous rapidity a perfect shower of thrusts, making those who pinioned King and courtier fall back, some in surprise and dread, others in agony or in death, leaving their prisoners at liberty to assume the offensive once again and aid their new supporter in his gallant efforts upon their behalf.
"Right!" he shouted, in a strange shrill voice. "About at once! Now, all together, charge!" And, taking advantage of the temporary astonishment of the enemy, the new-comer ranged himself by the King's side, and all setting spurs to their horses, the brave beasts shook themselves free from those who grasped their reins, and together broke into a gallop, trampling down and driving to the right and left those who, half-hearted now, held fast and strove to stop their way.
The attempt was vain, and away the little party went along the dim, shadowy road for about a hundred yards, when the stranger's voice rose above the trampling hoofs in the order to halt and turn, followed by a louder command to charge back once more.
They needed no urging on the part of the riders, for the horses, excited now to the fullest extent, recognised the orders, and broke into a gallop once again, dashing back over the ground they had just traversed towards where men were gathering together in obedience to excited voices and preparing to once more stop their way. For the danger was not yet over; the first charge had driven the horsemen, who had so far not been seen but heard, into a headlong flight; but at the halt they had rallied again, and as the gallant little band of four had turned for their second charge were coming on in full pursuit.
"Gallop!" yelled their new ally, and even in the wild excitement of those few moments, while he seemed borne here and there like the prisoner of his friends, the only help given being by the weight of his horse, Denis fell to wondering who the gallant Englishman could be that had come so opportunely to their aid; for there was a something not familiar in the tones which, trumpet-like, gave forth their orders, but somehow strange in the way in which they seemed to raise echoes in his brain.
"Gallop!" he yelled again. "France! France!" And like a flash the question darted through the boy's brain, why should he use the battle-cry of France?
Momentary all this as, before reaching the little, dimly seen crowd that once more barred the way, the chargers attained their fullest speed; and then there were a few slight shocks as man after man went down in their half-hearted resistance, and the rest were scattered, the little line of horsemen passing through them, driving them here and there, and charging on in their headlong gallop forward beneath the overhanging trees which suddenly ceased to darken their way, for the gallant band had passed out into the full bright moonlight once again, and the sound of pursuit by the enemy's mounted men had died away. _