“Give it ’em, boys! Old England for ever!” was yelled out in the darkness, close by to where Syd was cutting and thrusting at an active little Frenchman. Then there came a groan, and the same voice said hoarsely—
“Oh, if I had my strength!”
“Hurrah, boys! they’re giving way!” shouted Roylance. “Keep together, and over with them.”
For in spite of the bravery of their officers, the French were yielding ground once more, and being slowly driven up the narrowing path. But there was a fresh burst of cheering, the hurry of feet, and about twenty of the French frigate’s crew, who had taken advantage of the little garrison being attacked from the rear, and crept up to the cliff wall to scale it with a spar, one man going up with a rope which he had secured to a gun, soon turned the tables again.
With enemies before and behind triple their strength, and taking them in each case so thoroughly by surprise, the mêlée did not last long. Syd was conscious of seeing sparks after what seemed to be a loud clap of thunder above his head, and the next thing he knew was that Roylance was saying—
“Belt, lad, do, do try and speak.”
“Speak? yes,” he faltered. “What’s the matter?”
“Matter! don’t ask.”
“But what does it mean? Where are we? Has Terry won?”
“My poor old fellow, you haven’t been fighting Terry—yes, you have—a coward! he is with the French.”