In this file Vytal held a central position. Beside him, either by accident or purpose, stood Ananias Dare, and beyond the assistant, Dyonis Harvie, who had been recalled. In a line at their feet lay their fallen comrades and opponents, forming, in the final throes of death, a ghastly rampart across which the living fought. Again and again the onrush and repulse. The double file was a wall of stone. St. Magil himself, springing into the middle breach of his foremost rank, armed with a broadsword, made bold to attack the man whom he held responsible for the unflinching resistance. Vytal, who now carried a heavy blade himself, met his chief antagonist with stern, almost business-like precision, as he had encountered all the unknown soldiers that had come before. Suddenly St. Magil turned aside to Ananias Dare and thrust viciously. The stroke threatened death. Vytal parried it. For many minutes, that seemed years, he had been defending two men at once. St. Magil fell back to the rear ranks with a lifeless arm. A Spanish officer of high rank took his place and, with a rallying cry, led his men once more against the battered English wall. Steel in torment clashed and rang on shields that thwarted its desire. Leaden bullets, like driven sleet, shot from both sides, buried themselves with a monotonous thud in heavy cotton targets. Every man but one had only himself to guard. Save with Vytal, there was no trust but the cause and the individual. The Spaniards persisted. They had been held at the last assault, but not repelled. They were on the brink of victory, eight score against less than four; the issue could not be doubtful. Ananias Dare, although brave with a slight excess of wine and the knowledge that Vytal stood beside him, wavered. St. Magil’s thrust had shattered his puny courage. He gave way and fell back to the line of musketeers. Vytal and Dyonis Harvie closed in before him. But the disastrous effect of even one man’s retreat was not so easily averted. His sword had proved of little service, but the influence of each man on all had been incalculable. A single bolt in the precise mechanism had broken. The machine shook, grated, and threatened to fall in pieces. The line tottered. Ananias, perceiving with terror the result of his cowardice, sought to retrieve himself by rallying his fellows with a cry. But despair rose above encouragement in the call. His eyes, wild and horror-struck, looked over Harvie’s shoulder at the force that must surely in another instant overrun him. He was thinking only of himself then, not of the cause nor of his countrymen. His headpiece had fallen off, revealing a dishevelled mass of silken hair, wet with the sweat of fear. His lips dripped foam. The end, he believed, had come. Yet Vytal, with a sharp word, delayed it. The voice, deep and resonant with desperate command, reawakened hope and energy. The attackers neither gave way nor succeeded in advancing.