The men of Troy, dazzled by the glare of it, blinked in the
faces of the men of Looe.
THE FRENCH!
"A trap! A trap!" yelled someone far to the right, and the cry was
echoed on the instant by a sound in the rear of the Diehards--a sound
yet more terrible--the pounding of hoofs upon hard turf.
Again Captain Pond rushed forward and caught the Major by the elbow.
"The Dragoons!" he whispered. "Run for your life, man!"
But already the ranks of the Diehards had begun to waver; and now, as
the oncoming hoofs thundered louder, close upon their rear, they
broke. Trojans and men of Looe turned tail and were swept in one
commingled crowd down the beach.
"To the water, there! Down to the water, every man of you!"
A voice loud as a bull's roared out the command from the darkness.
The Major, still waving his sword, was lifted by the crowd's pressure
and swept along like a chip in a tideway. His feet fought for solid
earth. Glancing back as he struggled, he saw, high above his
shoulder, lit up by the flares from seaward, a line of flashing
swords, helmets, cuirasses.
"To the boats!" yelled the crowd.
"To the water! Drive 'em to the water!" answered the stentorian
voice, now recognisable as Mr. Smellie's.
The Dragoons, using the flat of their sabres, drove the fugitives
down to the tide's edge, nor drew rein until their chargers stood
fetlock-deep in water, still pressing the huddled throng around the
boats.
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