Truxton King

It must have been two o'clock when he crossed the King's Highway, a mile or more above the northern gates, and struck down into the same thick undergrowth that had protected him and Hobbs on a memorable night not long before.

At three o'clock, a dripping figure threw up his hands obligingly and laughed with exultation when confronted by a startled guardsman inside the Castle walls and not more than fifty yards from the water gates!

He had timed his entrance by the sound of the guardsman's footstep on the stone protecting wall that lined the little stream. When he came to the surface inside the water gate, the sentry was at the extreme end of his beat. He shouted a friendly cry as he advanced toward the man, calling out his own name.

Ten minutes later he was standing in the presence of the haggard, nerve-racked Quinnox, pouring into his astonished ears the news of the coming attack. While he was discarding his wet clothing for others, preparations for the sortie were getting under way. The Colonel lost no time in routing out the sleeping guardsmen and reserves, and in sending commands to those already on duty at the gates. The quick rattle of arms, the rush of feet, the low cries of relief, the rousing of horses, soon usurped the place of dreary, deadly calm.

When the sun peeped over the lofty hills, he saw inside the gates a restless, waiting company of dragoons, ready for the command to ride forth. Worn, haggard fellows, who had slept but little and who had eaten scarcely anything for three days; men who would have starved to death. Now they were forgetting their hunger and fatigue in the wild, exultant joy of the prospect ahead.

Meantime, King had crossed the grounds with Colonel Quinnox, on the way to the Castle. He was amazed, almost stupefied by the devastation that already had been wrought. Trees were down; great, gaping holes in the ground marked the spots where shells had fallen; the plaza was an almost impassable heap of masonry and soil, torn and rent by huge projectiles. But it was his first clear view of the Castle itself that appalled the American.

A dozen or more balls had crashed into the façade. Yawning fissures, gigantic holes, marked the path of the ugly messengers from Marlanx. Nearly all of the windows had been wrecked by riflemen who shot from the roofs of palaces in and about the avenue. Two of the smaller minarets were in ruins; a huge pillar in the lower balcony was gone; the terrace had been ploughed up by a single ricochetting shell.