“Little need to search,” said Grey Dick, stepping out on to the landing.  “Devil, go join your fellow-devils in that hell you talk of,” and he sent an arrow through his heart.

For a moment there followed the silence of consternation while the mob stood staring at their fallen leader.  Then with a yell of rage they charged the stair and that fray began which was told of in Avignon for generations.  Hugh and Dick shot their arrows, nor could they miss, seeing what was their target; indeed some of those from the great black bow pinned foe to foe beneath them.  But so crowded were the assailants on the narrow stair that they could not shoot back.  They advanced helpless, thrust to their doom by the weight of those who pressed behind.

Now they were near, the dead, still on their feet, being borne forward by the living, to whom they served as shields.  Hugh and Dick ran to the head of the second flight and thence shot off the arrows that remained.

Dick loosed the last of them, and of this fearful shaft it was said that it slew three men, piercing through the body of one, the throat of the second and burying its barb in the skull of the third on the lowest step.  Now Dick unstrung his bow, and thrust it into its case on his shoulder, for he was minded that they should go together at the last.

“Shafts have sung their song,” he said, with a fierce laugh; “now it is the turn of the axe and sword to make another music.”

Then he gripped Sir Hugh by the hand, saying: 

“Farewell, master.  Oh, I hold this a merry death, such as the Saints grant to few.  Ay, and so would you were you as free as I am.  Well, doubtless your lady has gone before.  Or at worst soon she will follow after and greet you in the Gate of Death, where Murgh sits and keeps his count of passing souls.”

“Farewell, friend,” answered Hugh, “be she quick or dead, thus Red Eve would wish that I should die. A Cressi!  A Cressi!” he cried and drove his sword through the throat of a soldier who rushed at him.

They fought a very good fight, as doubtless the dead were telling each other while they passed from that red stair to such rest as they had won.  They had fought a very good fight and it was hard to say which had done the best, Hugh’s white sword or Dick’s grey axe.  And now, unwounded still save for a bruise or two, they stood there in the moonlight upon the stark edge of the tall tower, the foe in front and black space beneath.  There they stood leaning on axe and sword and drawing their breath in great sobs, those two great harvestmen who that day had toiled so hard in the rich fields of death.

For a while the ever-gathering crowd of their assailants remained still staring at them.  Then the leaders began to whisper to each other, for they scarcely seemed to dare to talk aloud.

“What shall we do?” asked one.  “These are not men.  No men could have fought as they have fought us for seven days and at last have slain us like sparrows in a net and themselves remained unhurt.”