Approach the chamber, look upon his bed. His is the passing of no peaceful ghost, Which, as the lark arises to the sky, Mid morning’s sweetest breeze and softest dew, Is wing’d to heaven by good men’s sighs and tears!⁠— Anselm parts otherwise.

During the interval of quiet which followed the first success of the besiegers, while the one party was preparing to pursue their advantage, and the other to strengthen their means of defence, the Templar and De Bracy held brief council together in the hall of the castle.

“Where is Front-de-Boeuf?” said the latter, who had superintended the defence of the fortress on the other side; “men say he hath been slain.”

“He lives,” said the Templar, coolly, “lives as yet; but had he worn the bull’s head of which he bears the name, and ten plates of iron to fence it withal, he must have gone down before yonder fatal axe. Yet a few hours, and Front-de-Boeuf is with his fathers⁠—a powerful limb lopped off Prince John’s enterprise.”