There was fighting now, at gate and breach, rare fighting too, enough to warm the heart of any man.
And Michael was in fighting vein—the Irish blood in him saw to that—and the grimmer the work the merrier grew his mood.
Hotspur Mike he had been called at college, and Hotspur Mike was he, in very truth, that night.
A Breton peasant is no coward when the humour is on him, and his temper roused for the combat, so work there was in plenty for Michael's blade.
Surely the fairies must have kissed his eyelids—so his enemies swore, as they drew back for a moment—for this man seemed to see as well in the darkness as by day.
But the breach in the wall was growing—and Gabrielle was at Kérnak.
It was therefore no time for throwing away life, just because the fire of the fight ran lustily in his veins.
"Back! back!" cried Michael, in English, and, sword in hand, ran back himself across the courtyard, even as a dozen sturdy peasants flung themselves at a scramble over the wall.
Count Jéhan was not slow to obey the command, though he too had fought as la Rouerie's follower should fight.
"Fire! fire!" screamed Marcel Trouet, emptying his barrels into the darkness.