“Do you hear, lads?” cried Roylance. “Will you do as the new English-French deserter says?”
“No!” roared the men; and Rogers’ voice rose above them—“Say, lads, it’s yard-arm for a desarter, eh?”
“Yes.”
Terry turned away savagely, and they saw him saying something to the French officer—saw him dimly, as it seemed, then more plainly, for day was breaking with the rapidity of the change in the tropics; and as a movement took place, they all knew that a final assault was to be given, and must go against them.
Then the spirit of Syd’s family seemed to send a flush through him; he forgot his pain, the sickness passed off, and he turned to gaze on the torn and blood-stained men about him.
“French and English,” he cried, raising his sword.
“Hurray!” shouted the brave fellows; and every cutlass flashed as they prepared to defend their tiny stronghold, built up for the very emergency in which they were.
“Rendez, messieurs!” shouted the French officer, half appealingly.
“Non, non!” shouted Sydney, excitedly.
“En avant!” rang out the order, and with a rush the men came on in the rapidly increasing morning light.