“We have fought a good fight, men, and we’ll fight again, but we must get out of this now. Load and reserve your fire till I give the order. Follow me.”
He stepped into the street. His men, gaining courage from the cool confidence of his voice, loaded their muskets and went after him.
“Neal,” said Lord Dunseveric, “this is madness. Stay. There are at least a thousand men in front of you. You can’t cut your way through them.”
But Neal did not listen. To him, for the moment, it was enough that Hope was leading.
“Neal, Neal, don’t leave me.”
It was the voice of the boy who had stood by him in the street and turned the pikes aside.
“See, I have bound up my leg. I can walk.”
Neal took him by the arm, and together they joined the remnant of Hope’s musketeers in their march against the fresh troops who approached them.
Lord Dunseveric, heedless of the bullets which still swept the street from the demesne, stood on the graveyard wall. He was excited at last.
“Maurice,” he cried, “these men are going to certain destruction, but, by God, their courage is glorious. Look, they are out of the town. They have halted. They fire. Now, if the English officer has any horse he can cut them to pieces. He should advance, cavalry or no cavalry. A charge with the bayonets would settle it. See, Maurice, the red coats have halted. They are forming a square; they expect to be charged. The rebels have turned. They are satisfied with having checked the advance. They are making back into the town. Are they mad? No, by God, they wheel to their right. They are off. They have escaped.”