Such were the shouts that set the wild cliffs echoing as hundreds of painted shields came up the pass to meet the dawn. Above, Sir Didcart with three thousand men had fallen upon those Saracens who had put Bertrand and his band to rout and had rolled down the rocks on Tristan at the Gate.
Up the road came Lothaire of the north, his men racing shoulder to shoulder behind him, panting open-mouthed towards St. Isidore’s Gate. The great rock with its black pinnacles flashed into view, the platform strewn with the Christian dead, the narrow rampart piled with the slain. For one moment Lothaire stood still in the road. Then with a shout he broke away, waving his men on with his sword.
On the rampart, outlined against the sky, stood a single warrior with his shield reared up, while his sword flashed and swept from side to side. A mob of white-robed infidels topped the wall, thrusting at him with their lances, fearing to close. Near by stood a woman wielding a spear, with which she strove to beat down the lance points that were levelled at the man’s body.
“Holy Cross, Holy Cross, God and the Duchess!”
Even as Lothaire’s men charged up, Tristan gave ground, for an arrow had smitten through the rings of his hauberk, and wounded him sorely in the breast. A tall Saracen, seeing him stagger, sprang forward and smote at him with an axe, but fell in turn beneath Tristan’s sword. Yet this was the last blow Tristan gave on the bloody rampart of St. Isidore’s Gate.
Blanche’s arms caught him as he fell; her body shielded him from the spears. Lothaire’s men saw their Duchess stand like a noble mother guarding a son. One outstretched arm pressed the infidels back; the other was round the stricken man’s shoulders.
Then came the roar of the rising tide as Lothaire and his avengers reached the Gate and poured up to save the Duchess there. The stalwart West rolled the Orient back, over the wall and down the road, with bustling shields and screaming steel. Buckler and lance went down in the dust, while the dragon of the North heaved on down the pass, its iron flanks hurling Serjabil’s men over the precipice into the depths beneath.
Tristan lay under the shadow of the cliff with the Saracen’s arrow betwixt his ribs. Beside him knelt Blanche, her noble hands dyed with the blood of the man she loved. Many a rough soldier stood mutely by, gazing on their lady and the man at her knees.