The wounded generally died; only the fortunate escaped.

Thus he ran on, talking as much for his own amusement as that of his guest.

He fretted because he could not join the camp and help work the artillery; he supposed the ram would be in position by now and shaking the wall with its blow.

He wondered if Baron Ingulph would miss his face.
"Who's he ?" asked Felix.
"He is captain of the artillery," replied his host.
"Are you his retainer ?" "No; I am a servant." Felix started slightly, and did but just check himself from rising from the table.

A "servant" was a slave; it was the euphemism used instead of the hateful word, which not even the most degraded can endure to bear.
The class of the nobles to which he belonged deemed it a disgrace to sit down with a slave, to eat with him, even to accidently touch him.