Swiftly, fiercely, came the band of men, some twenty of them, cleaving their way through the crowd like a wedge. At their head, and taller than the others, fought two men, whose arms worked with the systematic precision of piston-rods, and before whom men fell on either hand as if struck with sledge-hammers.
“Hottawa a moi!” cried the Ottawa champion again, and the relieving party faced in his direction.
“I say,” said the lieutenant, “that first man is uncommonly like your Glengarry friend.”
“What, Ranald?” cried Harry. “Then we are all right. I swear it is,” he said, after a few moments, and then, remembering the story of the great fight on the Nation, which he had heard from Hughie and Maimie, he raised the Macdonald war-cry: “Glengarry! Glengarry!”
Ranald paused and looked about him.
“Here, Ranald!” yelled Harry, waving his white handkerchief. Then Ranald caught sight of him.
“Glengarry!” he cried, and sprang far into the crowd in Harry's direction.
“Glengarry! Glengarry forever!” echoed Yankee—for he it was—plunging after his leader.
Swift and sharp like the thrust of a lance, the Glengarry men pierced the crowd, which gave back on either side, and soon reached the group at the wall.
“How in the world did YOU get here?” cried Ranald to Harry; then, looking about him, cried: “Where is LeNware? I heard he was being killed by the Gatineaus, and I got a few of our men and came along.”