"Hymen!" Captain Pond ran past the Major's guard and caught him by the elbow.
"Hands off, I say! Forward, Troy!" The Major struggled to disengage his sword-arm.
"Hymen, don't be a fool! As a friend now—though you might have taken me into your confidence—"
"Unhand me, Pond! Though you are doing your best to spoil the whole business—"
"Listen to me, I say. The Dragoons—"
But Captain Pond shouted in vain. Bugle after bugle drowned his voice, rending the darkness. From the rocks to the eastward voices answered them, challenging wildly.
"Death to the invader!"
With a whoo-sh a rocket leapt into the air and burst, flooding the beach with light, showing up every furze bush, every stone wall, every sheep-track, on the surrounding cliffs. As if they had caught fire from it, a score of torches broke into flame on the eastward rocks, and in the sudden blaze, under the detonating fire of musketry, the men of Troy could be seen tumbling out of their boats and splashing ankle-deep to the shore.
It was a splendid, a gallant sight. Each man, as he reached terra firma, dropped on one knee, fired deliberately, reloaded, and advanced a dozen paces. Still from the boats behind fresh reinforcements splashed ashore and crowded into the firing-line: while from the eastward rock the vanguard of the Diehards kept up its deadly flanking fire, heedless of the torches that exposed them each and all at plain target-shot to the oncoming host.
Still, amid the pealing notes of the bugles, the Major waved his men forward. Captain Pond, breaking loose from him and facing swiftly towards the Cove-head, with a flourish of his blade called upon his mainguard.