These--seeing their comrades standing with leveled bayonets, keeping the mob at bay--without asking any questions, at once burst their way through to their side; distributing blows right and left, heartily, with the butt-end of their rifles. This reinforcement put an end to the threatened conflict; and the gendarmes, aided by two of the franc tireurs, lifted the insensible man and carried him to the Maine; the rest of the franc tireurs marching on either side as a guard, and the yelling crowd following them.
Once inside the Maine the gates were shut and--the supposed spy being laid down on the bench--cold water was dashed in his face; and in a few minutes he opened his eyes.
"The murdering villains!" he muttered to himself. "They've kilt me entirely, bad luck to them! A hundred to one, the cowardly blackguards!
"Where am I?" and he made an effort to rise.
"You're all right," Ralph said. "You're with friends. Don't be afraid, you're safe now."
"Jabers!" exclaimed the Irishman in astonishment, sitting up and looking round him, "here's a little French soldier, speaking as illegant English as I do, meself."
"I'm English," laughed Ralph, "and lucky it was for you that we came along. We heard you call out, just as you fell; and got in in time, with the help of our friends, to save your life. Another minute or two, and we should have been too late."
"God bless your honor!" the man--who had now thoroughly recovered himself--said earnestly. "And it was a tight shave, entirely. You've saved Tim Doyle's life; and your honor shall see that he's not ungrateful. Whenever you want a lad with a strong arm and a thick stick, Tim's the boy."
"Thank you, Tim," Ralph said, heartily. "Now you had better let the surgeon look at your head. You have got some nasty cuts."
"Sure, and my head's all right, your honor It isn't a tap from a Frenchman that would break the skull of Tim Doyle."