“And—” cried Syd, sitting up, “are we beaten?”
“Yes! no!” cried Roylance. “They’re all down or prisoners—but eight of us here.”
“Where are we?” said Syd, who felt sick and dizzy.
“Up in the little top battery, and they’re coming on again. Stand by, lads!”
Syd rose to his feet as the men cheered, and stood with his sword hanging by the knot to his wrist, holding on by the rough stone wall, looking over into the starlit gloom at a body of French sailors apparently about to attack. Just then an officer stepped forward, and said, cheerily—
“Rendez-vous, mes braves. Parlez, vous!” he continued, turning to some one at his side.
“Here, you there!—the French officer says it’s no use to fight any longer; he has taken the place, so give up.”
“Terry!” cried Roylance; “you miserable traitor!” and the men around burst into a loud groan, and hooted the renegade.
“Yes, traitor!” cried Syd, excitedly; and forgetting his wound, “coward!”
“Coward yourself!” cried Terry. “Do you think I was going to stay in a service which compelled men to serve under a contemptible boy like you? Here, my lads, it’s no use to resist. Give up, and you will have good treatment as prisoners. Come out.”