Behind were the little clump of steel-clad horsemen, their lances raised, with long pensils drooping down the oaken shafts.

So silent and still were they, that they might have been metal-sheathed statues, were it not for the occasional quick, impatient stamp of their chargers, or the rattle of chamfron against neck-plates as they tossed and strained.

A spear's length in front of them sat the spare and long-limbed figure of Black Simon, the Norwich fighting man, his fierce, deep-lined face framed in steel, and the silk guidon marked with the five scarlet roses slanting over his right shoulder.

All round, in the edge of the circle of the light, stood the castle servants, the soldiers who were to form the garrison, and little knots of women, who sobbed in their aprons and called shrilly to their name-saints to watch over the Wat, or Will, or Peterkin who had turned his hand to the work of war.
The young squire was leaning forward, gazing at the stirring and martial scene, when he heard a short, quick gasp at his shoulder, and there was the Lady Maude, with her hand to her heart, leaning up against the wall, slender and fair, like a half-plucked lily.

Her face was turned away from him, but he could see, by the sharp intake of her breath, that she was weeping bitterly.
"Alas! alas!" he cried, all unnerved at the sight, "why is it that you are so sad, lady ?" "It is the sight of these brave men," she answered; "and to think how many of them go and how few are like to find their way back.