On the other hand, their numbers and courage told in their favor. Many clubbed their rifles, and laid about them with a vigor that laughed at the broadswords. Where a man was cut down or run through, some comrade would fell his slayer with the butt of a rifle. Only the terrible partisan, Butler, made his heavy sword of more weight than the clubbed rifle. He raged through the fight, driving back the stoutest riflemen like children, with his enormous strength. Meeting Adrian Schuyler, when the press prevented maneuvering, he beat down his guard, and felled him to the earth with a single stroke, then turned to face De Cavannes, who was making toward him through the swaying crowd.
But such savage fighting could not last long. Strong and brave as were the dragoons, the increasing numbers of Morgan’s men bore down their opposition by sheer weight of horse-flesh, and the whole mass drove down toward Burgoyne’s lines, struggling and shouting, but too closely packed to allow the use of weapons of any size.
Then, at last, the hunting-knives of the riflemen came into play, and they made it too hot for the dragoons, who, one by one, broke out of the fight, and fled toward the English army, pursued by the shouting riflemen.
Even the generally indomitable Butler was fain to turn his horse, his vengeance unsatisfied, and quit a fight in which he had only overthrown one of his enemies.
Adrian Schuyler, stunned and bleeding from a head wound, scrambled to his feet in the dusty road, and beheld De Cavannes, dismounted, and approaching him as if to assist him.
It seemed as if some mutual understanding existed between the two, however originating, for Adrian evinced no surprise at the other’s coming. He staggered slightly and put his hand to his head, saying faintly:
“I fear, count, that I have not done you credit to-day. The villain has escaped, and ’tis my fault.”
The mysterious stranger smiled gravely, as he answered:
“Boy, you did your best, but fate must be fulfilled. He will not escape forever. No! If he did, I should almost believe there is no God of Justice.”
Seen by the light of day, the strange being was of noble figure. His great hight and spare make did not detract from, but rather added to the air of mystery and dignity that surrounded him. His pallid face, not now distorted by assumed expressions, was noble and intellectual in outline, and the antique dress that he wore, with the flowing, black, full-bottomed wig, added to the majesty of his looks, while the long, black mustache evinced that its wearer must have been a cavalry officer, that facial ornament being peculiar to the mounted service, in those days.