The hostiles were driven back, but the defenders had sustained heavy losses. There were dead white men just inside the wall; three wounded troopers groaned as they staggered across the plaza to receive medical aid; and Sergeant Cassara howled maledictions upon renegades and hostiles as Gonzales bandaged a bad cut in the Santa Barbara soldier’s shoulder. “Save me my blood, good pirate!” he cried. “Stop its flow, for the love of the saints, before I lose so much that I am weakened! If I were to meet this Fly-by-Night and had not the strength to stand up before him----” “Hah! I’ll attend to the renegade in your name and my own, comrade!” Gonzales replied. “You can lose twice this blood and still fight. ’Tis a clean cut and soon will heal--just a mere prick in the skin. You have been living too soft; in good condition you scarcely would notice a slash like this. In my pirate days----” “Spare me your pirate days!” Cassara cried. “A mere prick in the skin, eh? Give me my blade!” “It were best for you to rest here beside the wall for the time being, comrade, and get back your strength.” “My strength? A mere prick in the skin? Hah! My blade, good pirate!” A chorus of shrieks came from the wall; the hostiles were attacking again. Gonzales turned and ran to his place when he heard the _comandante_ screeching orders. Sergeant Cassara staggered to his feet, stood for a time with legs spread wide apart until he could walk without reeling, then picked up blade and returned to the combat. Gonzales, firing and using blade by turns, realised that the sergeant stood beside him again. “Hah! At them, brave soldier!” he cried. “To your right, man! That cur almost had you! Easy--easy! You still are weak.” “Prick in the skin!” Cassara hissed, and sent his blade home again. Another rush, and for a time the defenders of the wall settled down to desperate work. The hostiles seemed to be getting the better of it. Half a score of times they broke over the wall, some to fall inside dead and wounded, others to fall back before the infuriated counter-assault of the defenders. Cassara, cutting and slashing savagely, felt blood flowing from his wound again and realised that he was growing weak. A film seemed to be before his eyes, his blows came not so frequent and swift. “Hah! ’Ware on your left!” he heard Gonzales shout. As through a screen the sergeant saw a giant hostile swinging at him with a bludgeon. Cassara drew back and swung his sword, but not in time to cut down his enemy. He felt a terrific blow on the side of his head, his senses reeled, and he fell backward off the wall with the vengeful shriek of Gonzales ringing in his ears as the pirate ran the hostile through. For several minutes he remained huddled on the ground while the fight raged about him, and then he began crawling to one side, following the wall, trying to get where he would not hinder the others, and remain away until he recovered strength.