Part 13 (1/2)

”Shouldn' wonder at all.”

”I didn' mean to kill any person, Mr. Spettigew!”

”'Tis the sort of accident, Oke, that might happen to anyone in war.

At the worst they'll recommend 'ee to mercy. The mistake was your tellin' me.”

”You won't inform upon me, Mr. Spettigew? Don't say you'll inform upon me!”

”No, I won't; not if I can help it. But dang it! first of all you swaller the fuse, and next you fire off your ramrod.”

”E-everything must have a beginning, Mr. Spettigew.”

Uncle Issy shook his head. ”I doubt you'll never make a sojer, William Oke. You'm too frolicsome wi' the materials. Listen, there's Pengelly shoutin' for another volley! Right you be, sergeant! Make ready--prepare--Eh? Hallo!”

Why was it that suddenly, at the height of the hubbub, a panic fell upon the bandsmen of Troy? Why did the ”Rout for the Looes” cease midway in a bar? What was it that hushed on an instant the shouts, the rallying cries upon the beach, the bugle-calls and challenges, the furious uproar of musketry?

Why, within twenty yards of the Cove-head, in the act of charging upon the serried ranks of Looe's main guard, did Major Hymen face about and with sword still uplifted stare behind him, and continue to stare as one petrified?

What meant that strange light, out yonder by the Cove's mouth, in the rear of his boats?

The light grew and spread until it illuminated every pebble on the beach. The men of Troy, dazzled by the glare of it, blinked in the faces of the men of Looe.

THE FRENCH!

”A trap! A trap!” yelled someone far to the right, and the cry was echoed on the instant by a sound in the rear of the Diehards--a sound yet more terrible--the pounding of hoofs upon hard turf.

Again Captain Pond rushed forward and caught the Major by the elbow.

”The Dragoons!” he whispered. ”Run for your life, man!”

But already the ranks of the Diehards had begun to waver; and now, as the oncoming hoofs thundered louder, close upon their rear, they broke. Trojans and men of Looe turned tail and were swept in one commingled crowd down the beach.

”To the water, there! Down to the water, every man of you!”

A voice loud as a bull's roared out the command from the darkness.

The Major, still waving his sword, was lifted by the crowd's pressure and swept along like a chip in a tideway. His feet fought for solid earth. Glancing back as he struggled, he saw, high above his shoulder, lit up by the flares from seaward, a line of flas.h.i.+ng swords, helmets, cuira.s.ses.

”To the boats!” yelled the crowd.

”To the water! Drive 'em to the water!” answered the stentorian voice, now recognisable as Mr. Smellie's.

The Dragoons, using the flat of their sabres, drove the fugitives down to the tide's edge, nor drew rein until their chargers stood fetlock-deep in water, still pressing the huddled throng around the boats.

”Bring a lantern, there!” shouted the Riding Officer. ”And call Hymen! Where is Hymen!”

”I am here!”

The Major had picked himself up out of two feet of water, into which he had been flung on all fours. He was dripping wet, but he still clutched his naked blade, and advancing into the light of the lantern's rays, brought it up to salute with a fine cold dignity.

”I am here,” he repeated quietly.