At that moment a man appeared at the edge of the mole, to which he had scrambled up--Heaven alone knows how--and with a light hatchet he hewed with furious zeal to sever the warps by which the ships were approaching to save us. "Bandolo, the spy!" I exclaimed, recognising my Schönberg trader in the canvass doublet. "By Heaven, it is Bandolo!" Gillian M'Bane, Donald M'Vurich, and another soldier, levelled their muskets; all fired at once, and with a yell Bandolo tumbled headlong into the water, to swell the list of the drowning. "Ah--spy and assassin--thou art gone at last!" thought I. "Captain Rollo, the enemy's horse are close upon us. Cover our rear with your company until Duke Bernard is on board," said Sir Donald, as he passed me on foot, dragging by the bridle his snorting charger. Aided by a temporary gangway, our soldiers crowded on board the first ship that reached the mole; and, in token that she was ours, Sir Donald planted the Scottish ensign on her poop. Though they were fired at by the panic-stricken Danes, who crowded the beach in thousands, two regiments of Austrian horsemen swept along the pier to cut us off; but with my company of musketeers I boldly confronted them. Ian, M'Alpine, Phadrig Mhor, and stout sergeant M'Gillvray were close by my side, and we all fell on with pike and musket, like true Scottish hearts. M'Alister of Lairgie, a poor young ensign, who had lost Kildon's company in the confusion and joined mine, was shot dead; but I snatched from him the _Brattach Bane_, the white banner of Mackay, as he fell into the water, and, throwing myself forward with it in my left hand, and a cocked pistol in my right-- "Gentlemen and comrades!" I exclaimed, "if you would not lose your honour, defend this standard, for thus far shall the enemy come--but no farther." I placed the staff between two stones of the pier, and a fresh conflict began around it. I was the aim of a hundred pistols; but, though horsemen seldom or never hit their mark, the bullets tore the standard to pieces. Conspicuous among the black-mailed Reitres, I recognised the Count of Carlstein in his polished steel, with his scarlet plume, the golden fleece at his breast, and his beautiful charger Bellochio streaming with blood. "On--on, Kœningheim!" we heard this splendid soldier exclaiming as he brandished his sword--the famous _Ironhewer_ (so often mentioned in the _Svedish Intelligencer_.) "Charge with your lancers and Reitres! To the left--to the left; upon the Danes and down with them, but spare the poor lads in tartan! Close up--close up! forward Kœningheim, for my daughters are on board one of those very vessels!" How my heart beat at these words, which I heard distinctly amid the hellish uproar around me and below.