Rouse let the gate swing back quickly, and Vytal, leading a dozen men, sought, by the sheer vigor and unexpectedness of his attack, to press the enemy back over the cliff which they had scaled. This seemed his only chance. By so bold a move he intended to convey the impression that large numbers within the town only awaited a signal to reinforce him. For, although Frazer, disguised as the bear, had overheard Prat’s observation concerning the colony’s weakness, there had been, Vytal believed, no possible means of communication between him and the Spaniards. The one chance, then, seemed to lie in the exaggeration of Roanoke’s forces, by manœuvres implying fearlessness and strength. As Vytal surprised the foremost body of attackers by his sudden sortie, the flanker culverins necessarily became silent, while the men at the palisade loop-holes likewise ceased from firing. Now on the headland there was a general mêlée, and to distinguish Englishmen from Spaniards was impossible. Only the lofty figure of Vytal, towering above all the combatants, kept the anxious watchers from despair. Sable forms, spirits of the night, met and fell, while, above all, coruscant swords and pike-blades flashed in the calm light of stars; and here and there a face, anguished or triumphant, being lighted up by fitful cressets, seemed not a human countenance, but only, as it were, an expression, bodiless, the mere look of a ghost haunted by reality. Suddenly, a new glare, high and lurid, broke the gloom. The tree-trunks of the western palisade were now themselves flambeaus, ignited by stealthy Winginas, who, having overcome the outposts, had gained the town. With a loud cry, Hugh Rouse warned Vytal, whereat the captain fell back to the main entrance. “Quick!” he said to Rouse. “Give the signal to Manteo,” and Hugh started toward the western wall. In another instant the savage enemy would have been surrounded by Manteo’s men, according to the preconceived arrangement, but Rouse was unexpectedly delayed. From the small gateway which led to Vytal’s cabin a soldier rushed out to meet him with drawn sword. Even in the faint starlight there was no mistaking that scarred face, with its indrawn eye and yellow teeth, as the lips parted in a smile. The man was Sir Walter St. Magil. Without a word they met, and their swords crossed, to kill, immediately. But Rouse, taken by surprise, found himself on the defensive, and, before he could swing his heavy weapon effectually, the other’s point pried into his sword-hilt, which, being wet and slippery from the moisture of his fingers, slid from his grasp, and fell with a thud beside him. Nothing daunted, the giant closed in, unarmed, upon his antagonist with so impetuous a rush that St. Magil could not thrust again before a huge pair of arms encircled him completely. His own arms, benumbed by the sudden pressure, hung lifeless, while at one side his sword dangled uselessly.