The Lorrainers were driven furiously back; but a savage conflict ensued with them between the bastion and the town-gate; and there, in the cold gray light of the morning, were Scottish musketeers and German pikemen, chevaliers in brilliant plate-armour, gentlemen of our Garde du Corps, and those of Lorraine, with the lean and famished bourgeoisie of the town, in their black and battered harness, all mingled in one wild melée of whirling swords and clubbed muskets, as they closed up round the tall figure of Hepburn on one side, and the fierce and energetic Raoul d'Ische on the other. Side by side two of our cuirassiers had almost hewed a passage to the shattered barrier, the archway of which was encumbered by paths of dead and dying, and behind these the musketeers and pistoleers were nestling, and plying fast their shot. These two were young Sir Robert Bruce of Blairhall, and old Sir Archibald Douglas of Heriotmuir, who had lost his helmet, and whose silver tresses were glittering in the dewy air. 'You have the precedence here by age,' said Blairhall, saluting him with his bloody rapier; 'my brave friend, lead on!' 'Nay,' said Sir Archibald, lowering also his blade, 'do thou advance, my brave boy; where a Bruce leads, a Douglas may be proud to _follow_!' Fatal courtesy! It was scarcely exchanged, ere the first was run through by a pike, and a gigantic bourgeois brained the latter by the ampoulette of his clubbed musket. The poor old baronet's brains flew over me, but I pistolled his destroyer, who fell prone into that gory puddle where the two bravest gentlemen of the Garde du Corps Ecossais were lying side by side. In a moment afterwards I found myself opposed to the Chevalier d'Ische, hand-to-hand, and so closely, that our weapons were engaged up to the very hilt, and being encumbered by a wounded man, who grasped my right leg in his death agony, I received a severe cut on the right cheek. 'Ah, thou diabolical Scot! at last I have thee!' said the Chevalier, grinding his teeth. 'Beware, Chevalier, beware!' said I, infuriated by the sight of my own blood; 'I have sworn to write my name on your skin with a good Scottish dagger!' 'And yet, dog, 'tis to my worthless sister you owe your frippery!--yea, life itself!' he added, with a terrible glance. 'True, true; let us pass--let us part!' said I, feeling sudden compunction, and standing only on my defence. 'In a moment I shall kill you--adieu! do you call that fencing? no lover could be a greater fool than you!--Ah, queen of heaven!--I am gone!' he exclaimed, and tossed his sword into the air. As he threw up his hands, the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell on his face. A ball, fired by Lord Dundrennan at another person, had pierced his chest, and slain him! On his fall all resistance ceased; and thus, after considerable loss, at seven o'clock on the morning of the 25th July, 1635, the Scottish general of Louis XIII. hoisted the French standard on the ramparts of La Mothe.