"The Romans! The Romans are coming!"
Suddenly, without command, by common instinct, as if impelled by an invisible force, they flung themselves through the breach, down the incline, falling like an avalanche upon the besiegers who were massed for the final assault.
The unexpectedness of the shock, the force of the surprise, the cry of "The Romans! The Romans!" which the Saguntines raised with such conviction, wrought disruption among Hannibal's barbarian tribes. They defended themselves, but the whole city fell upon them; even the women and children fought as on that morning when Theron died, and Hannibal's soldiers, broken into scattered groups, neither seeing nor hearing their chiefs, fled precipitately toward their camp.
Hannibal ran bellowing with rage, maddened at seeing that the besieged repelled his troops for the second time. Such was the blindness of his anger that he rushed in among the enemy, and several times came near falling beneath their blows.
The day was almost ended. The Saguntine soldiers reached the vicinity of the camp, while the unarmored citizens scattering throughout the battle field dispatched the wounded and tried to set fire to the besieging engines. They would have destroyed them all had it not been for Maherbal, Hannibal's lieutenant, who came out of the camp with some cohorts of cavalry. The besieged, unable to resist the cavalry on open ground, began slowly to retire. When night closed in they reoccupied the breach, commenting with joyful shouts upon the victory which mitigated their disappointment over the non-appearance of the Romans.
Actæon, with those Saguntines who had most distinguished themselves in the battles, set to work fortifying the city. He explained to the old men of the Senate how difficult it would be long to defend the opening. It was impossible to repeat the prodigy of that afternoon many times; and by the light of torches the people spent the whole night working behind the breach, throwing down tiled roofs and demolishing walls.
Merchants and slaves, rich city dames and women from the suburbs, all mingled together, wielding pickaxes, rolling stones and carrying baskets of clay. Even the Ancients of the Senate took part in this titanic work, which lasted throughout the night and a great part of the following day.
Euphobias the philosopher, who remained idle in spite of the insults of those who worked, ironically recalled the memory of the primitive founders of the city, the Cyclopes who moved stones as big as mountains and had thrown up the base of the Acropolis.
The labor was not finished until the next afternoon, and at the same moment the besieging army began to stir. It marched solidly to the assault, silently, sullenly, revealing the fixed determination of taking possession at the first onset of that breach which had put them to shame the day before.
They passed through the clouds of stones and arrows which the besieged hurled at them, and the cohorts leading on a run climbed up the pile of débris, struggling with the more audacious Saguntines, who still disputed passage through the breach. After a short conflict the besiegers made themselves masters of the entrance to the city, and they burst into exclamations of triumph.