"Yes, yes; that's
understood--but see here now--"
"Back, or you are my prisoner!" The Major had scrambled to his feet,
and stood waving his sword.
"Hymen!" Captain Pond ran past the Major's guard and caught him by
the elbow.
"Hands off, I say! Forward, Troy!" The Major struggled to disengage
his sword-arm.
"Hymen, don't be a fool! As a friend now--though you _might_ have
taken me into your confidence--"
"Unhand me, Pond! Though you are doing your best to spoil the whole
business--"
"Listen to me, I say. The Dragoons--"
But Captain Pond shouted in vain. Bugle after bugle drowned his
voice, rending the darkness. From the rocks to the eastward voices
answered them, challenging wildly.
"Death to the invader!"
With a _whoo-sh_ a rocket leapt into the air and burst, flooding the
beach with light, showing up every furze bush, every stone wall,
every sheep-track, on the surrounding cliffs. As if they had caught
fire from it, a score of torches broke into flame on the eastward
rocks, and in the sudden blaze, under the detonating fire of
musketry, the men of Troy could be seen tumbling out of their boats
and splashing ankle-deep to the shore.
It was a splendid, a gallant sight. Each man, as he reached _terra
firma_, dropped on one knee, fired deliberately, reloaded, and
advanced a dozen paces. Still from the boats behind fresh
reinforcements splashed ashore and crowded into the firing-line:
while from the eastward rock the vanguard of the Diehards kept up its
deadly flanking fire, heedless of the torches that exposed them each
and all at plain target-shot to the oncoming host.
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