It was not long in coming. Diggle did not wait to parley. Taking a musket from one of his men he raised it to his shoulder and fired at a sepoy whose head just showed above the gate. The man raised his hand to his brow and fell back with a sharp cry--a bullet had ploughed a furrow through his scalp. Desmond checked his men as they were about to fire in reply; but when, in the rush that followed, the enemy came within thirty yards, he gave the word, and seven muskets flashed forth across the barricade. The attacking party were coming forward in close order, and five of the men fell. But the rest sprang forward with shrill yells, Diggle, who was untouched, urging them on. Even the fire of Desmond’s second rank failed to check them. Two or three dropped; others were soon swarming up the wall, and though the defenders with clubbed muskets struck savagely at their heads and hands as they appeared above the coping, if one drew back, another took his place; and the wall was so long that at several points there were gaps between Desmond’s sepoys where the enemy could mount unmolested. Desmond, having discharged his two pistols, disposing of one of the assailants with each shot, was in the act of reloading when Diggle leapt into the compound, followed by two of his men. Shouting to Bulger, Desmond threw the pistols and rammer on the ground behind him, and, drawing his sword, dashed at the three intruders, who were slightly winded by the charge and their exertions in scaling the wall. Desmond could never afterwards remember the details of the crowded moments that followed. There were cries all around him: behind, the strident voice of Mr. Toley was cheering his men to repel the assault at the back of the house; at his side Bulger was bellowing like a bull of Bashan. But all this was confused noise to him, for his attention was wholly occupied with his old enemy. His first lunge at Diggle was neatly parried, and the two, oblivious of all that was happening around them, looked and into each other’s eyes, read grim determination there, and fought with a cold fury that meant death to the first that gave an opening to his opponent’s sword. If motive counted, if the right cause could always win, the issue admitted of no doubt. Desmond had a heavy score to pay off. From the time when he had met Diggle in the street at Market Drayton to his last encounter with him at the Battle of the Carts, he had been the mark of his enmity, malice, spite, trickery. But Desmond thought less of his own wrongs than of the sorrow of his friend Mr. Merriman, and the harrowing wretchedness which must have been the lot of the ladies while they were in Diggle’s power. The man had brought misery into so many lives that it would be a good deed if, in the fortune of war, Desmond’s sword could rid the world of him.