But as the page sank upon the floor, a small bottle fell from his breast coat-pocket, and the widow saw that it was labelled “antidote for the oil of strychnine.” Then the widow’s heart leaped for joy, and as she poured the precious drops into the gaping wound, she said a prayer that the page might recover also. + 

But what noise is this of horses and of men around the humble vinevard of that poor widow? “Tiraloo, Tiraloo, Tiraloo-ooh,” “Ha!” said the Mountfidget, raising himself on his elbow, “ ’tis the war-cry of the Grandnostrel!” “Rowdadow, Rowdadow, Rowdadow-dow,” then greeted his ears. “Ha! ha!” he cried. “Rowdadow, a Rowdadow, Rowdadow-dow; ’tis the war-cry of the Mountfidget!” And he grasped the sword which lay beneath his pillow. “Mountfidget to the rescue! Shall a man lie still and perish beneath the bedclothes? Ho, a Hossbach! Ho, a Walker!” For Walker was the captain of the men-at-arms at Mountfidget, and the lord knew the voice of his trusty clansman. + 

Then the widow looked through the lattice-window, and told him how the fight went. But no one thought of the page upon whose brow the clammy hand of death was falling as he lay at the bed-foot. + 