"Heaven save us!" ejaculated Dr. Joram; "'tis a perilous case this, truly!"
"To the rescue, Claverhouse! A Grahame! A Grahame! God for Scotland and James VII.! To the devil with the Stadtholder! hurrah!" cried the Life Guards.
It was a critical moment for the dismounted prisoners, who were hemmed in among the hostile horsemen, and each felt his heart beat like lightning, and his breath come thick and fast, for death or deliverance were at hand.
Between the close files of the Swart Ruyters, Walter Fenton saw the full rush of the advancing troop, in their shining harness, and chief of all, the lordly Viscount of Dundee, a lance-length in front, with his sword brandished aloft, and his white ostrich-feathers streaming behind him, his cheek glowing, and his wild dark eyes flashing with that supernatural brightness which was the true index of his fierce and heroic spirit. Though the Dutch were as four to one, the Scottish cavaliers were fearless.
There was a tremendous shock—a flashing of swords, as their keen edges rang on the tempered helmets and corslets of proof—a furious spurring of horses—and Walter felt himself beaten to the earth, as if by the force of a thunderbolt; the light left his eyes, and he heard the voice of Claverhouse exclaiming enthusiastically—
"Well done, my Scots' Life Guard! Well done, my berry-brown blades!"
"Come on, De Ginckel!" cried Holsterlee.
"Hand to hand, old gorbelly. Come on! for here are the hand and sword that shall punch a hole in thine Earl's patent!"
A heavy hoof struck the head of Walter, as a horse plunged over him, and the Dutch recoiled in utter confusion.
He remembered no more.