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.
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