Without so much as a horse neighing, the Croixilian cavalry approached within two hundred yards of the Moslem camp, while Reeves and his comrades kept a short distance in the rear of the almost invisible mass of horsemen. The night was dark, and only the outlines of the tents served as a guide.
Suddenly a shot rang out from the enemy's lines, quickly followed by several more; but ere the echoes died away the ground shook under the hoofs of the charging cavalry, while the sound of the Arab volleys was drowned by the fierce Shouts of the Croixilian horsemen.
Like a whirlwind they sped over the intervening plain. Cold steel clashed upon gun barrel, and pointed lance met scimitar and ox-hide shield. Slashing and hewing right and left, the dauntless five hundred cut their way right through the centre of the Moslem camp, leaving the Krupp gun unattended save by the dead or sorely-wounded Egyptian gunners, who, under the fierce threats of their Arab masters, had been urged forward to man the formidable weapon.
Quickly Reeves and his men were upon the gun. The limber was found barely twenty yards to the rear, and the horses were harnessed to it and brought up to the captured fieldpiece. After fumbling a little, the correspondent succeeded in connecting the trail to the gun carriage, and in less than five minutes the little band was on its way back to the city.
No need for silence now. Amid the exultant cries of the garrison, who, armed with torches and lanterns, had flocked to the gate and to the summit of the battlements, the captured trophy rumbled over the drawbridge, and was unlimbered and trained through the still open gateway. To his intense satisfaction, Reeves found that there were at least fifty rounds in the caissons. A shell was inserted in the breech and the block cleared, and the weapon was ready to fire upon its late owners.
But what of the gallant five hundred? Away in the distance the roar of battle still continued, waxing louder every moment. Long and anxiously the watchers on the walls gazed towards the Moslem camp. Darkness now brooded over the town of tents, save for the quick flashes of musketry. The lamps had been extinguished, either by the Arabs as they rushed to defend themselves, or else by the overturning of the tents.
"Here they come! Here they come!" shouted a hundred voices. "Keep open the gates."
Into the glare of the torches rode a Croixilian horseman, leaning over the neck of his foam-flecked steed. Even as a dozen hands gripped at the bridle of the exhausted animal, its rider fell from the saddle, half-dead from the effects of five deep wounds. Then came another, and two more, all grievously hurt.
Nearer and nearer came the sound of conflict, till Croixilian horsemen began to stream in through the gateway. Others, still fighting, followed slowly, being hindered by the press at the gate. Several, gripping at the throats of their foes, tumbled over the drawbridge. At length all those of the devoted five hundred who yet remained alive—barely one hundred and twenty all told—gained the city, with a horde of fierce Moslems at their heels.
It was now too late to close the massive gates. Reeves sprang to the Krupp gun, but ere he could loose its contents into the press the ponderous portcullis was lowered with a run, pinning half a score of fanatical warriors beneath its formidable prongs.