Like desperate men as they were, they set about accomplishing the latter straightway. On the rising ground of Oulart, distant eight miles from Wexford town, they rallied round the green at least four thousand strong. With proud defiance and undaunted mien they beheld the enemy's approach--red coats dimmed by dust and mist, and bayonets glimmering. They awaited the onset with stern determination, and--fled helter-skelter on the first attack. The yeomanry pursued with shouts and jeers, following fast over rock and boulder, sweeping the rebels before them as a broom sweeps chaff. But, arrived at the summit of the hill, a hint came to the insurgents that cavalry lay in ambush on the other side to intercept their flight. Cavalry! To their untutored minds a charge of horsemen meant instant annihilation, whilst they were quite resolved to live--for Victory. They rallied, turned on the disordered and breathless pursuers, and charging downward with their pikes, bore all before them. Taken by surprise, out of breath, disorganised, none of the quondam pursuers survived to tell of their defeat, save the lieutenant-colonel, a sergeant, and three privates. Many of the rebels succumbed, but what mattered that? Those who remained alive were masters of the situation. Theirs was the prestige of having beaten the royalist soldiers in the open field. Numbers had vanquished discipline; ignorance had made science of none effect; the spirits of the enemy were lowered in proportion to their own triumph. Hosts of peasants, lukewarm hitherto through fear, flocked to join the victors. Mustering now quite four thousand strong, and burning to add new leaves of laurel to their chaplet, they marched with childish gesture, intoning as they marched the 'Marseillaise,' to storm the town of Enniscorthy.