"Come on, me boys! it's a divil's own time we'll have of it in the valley, all to ourselves."
"Halt! fix bayonets!" commanded Fernando. In a moment, the gleaming bayonets were on each gun. "Forward!--Double--Quick!"
The soldiers, at a run, dashed into the valley just as the British appeared, two volleys delivered in quick succession and they were at it steel to steel. Fernando, bareheaded, engaged a stout Briton in a hand-to-hand struggle, which a quick thrust from Sukey's bayonet ended. Next, Captain Stevens found himself hotly engaged with his old enemy Lieutenant Matson. Their blades flashed angrily for a moment, but as the lieutenant's men threw down their arms and begged for quarters, he realized the folly of resisting longer and yielded. His stubborn pride made the struggle hard. He offered his sword to his victor, which he politely declined.
"Keep your sword, lieutenant," said Fernando. "Though you are my enemy, I trust you have not forgotten that you are a gentleman."
"I trust not."
"You shall be paroled as soon as we reach the fort."
The Britons stacked their arms, and marched in double file under a guard to the fort. Oxen and carts were sent out for the arms and two pieces of artillery which were brought into the fort.
Silent and majestic as an uncrowned prince, seeming neither elated nor depressed by the victory, stood the gunner Hugh St. Mark by the side of the old thirty-two, with which he had fired the shots that saved the fort.
He was tall, straight, broad-shouldered, with hair once chestnut, but now almost gray. His age might be anywhere between forty and fifty years. So calm, majestic and mysterious did he seem, as, with folded arms, he stood gazing unconcernedly about him, that Fernando was constrained to ask himself:
"Who is he?"