There was no sign from the castle. The English leapt, man after man, the last deep trench of their own earthworks, and suddenly, at a word from their leader, whose voice came faintly to the King’s ears, broke into a run and dashed up the slope at the foot of the rock, and full at the first wall of the French fortifications. Instantly the batteries of the garrison opened a terrible fire, and a confused echo to their thunder told that the other three divisions of the confederates were meeting a like reception. The English kept on; the little body of the Grenadiers, with the four battalions supporting them and at the head of all John Cutts, climbed the face of the rock with no sign of disorder. The King wheeled his horse round to face them, and his brilliant eyes never left their ranks. The French commenced fire from the guns behind their first palisade, which swept the ranks of the advancing English with deadly effect. Almost every officer of the Grenadiers fell on the hot, bare rock. The drums began to give a disconnected sound, the colours wavered, but the men pressed on, with Cutts still running before them and the recruits doggedly behind them. The King sent one of his officers with orders for the English batteries to open fire as soon as the breach had been made. There was, in the space of a few seconds, hardly an officer left among the English, the colonels, captains, and lieutenants, who had dashed forward to encourage their men, were lying scattered about the hill-side—patches of scarlet and steel—with their riderless horses running frantically back towards the camp. Still Cutts came on. The smoke was thick about him, but the King could see him clearly as he came every moment nearer. The Grenadiers had gained a firm footing on the ledge of rock beneath the palisade, and were about to hurl themselves against it. The cannonade was now supplemented by a storm of bullets. Cutts gave a shout, raised his sword, and pitched to the ground, shot through the head, while the thinned ranks of the Grenadiers rolled backwards down the rocks. The King uttered a passionate exclamation; a bomb, cast from the castle, burst near him, and his horse reared frantically at the explosion. When he had quieted the animal and the smoke had cleared, he saw two of the Grenadiers coming towards him supporting John Cutts between them. As they reached a deep, natural gully that cleft the rock, one fell and rolled down the precipice; the other caught his officer by the arm and swung him across the chasm; the King galloped up to them. "Is my lord slain?" he asked. The wounded man lifted his brown eyes and laughed. Blood blotched the left side of his face and ran through the bright brown English locks. "Why, no, sir," he answered. "I am glad of that," said the King. "But your men are being repulsed——" "God help me—not for long!" cried my lord, and dashed the blood out of his eyes, and with that movement fainted.