Among them, however, he noticed Sherebiah, who had possessed himself of a sword and pistol from the stand of arms and a horse from the palings, and was comporting himself as though, so far from being a man of peace, he had as much experience of warfare as any trooper present. Two of Madame de Vaudrey’s gardeners also had appropriated weapons, and were holding at bay a group of the disarmed enemy who hovered round, trying to dash in and recover their arms. Harry saw little of this, however. He wheeled his horse once more to repeat the charge. He was followed now by only six men; at least a dozen fresh troopers had debouched from the drive, but, like their comrades, they had not time to form before the dauntless seven were upon them. The odds were heavier now; only two succeeded in getting through; the rest were checked. Then ensued a series of fierce duels, the little group of Dutch being broken up and driven back by the weight of the files pressing through as rapidly as they might into the open space. Harry, engaged with a stout trooper, felt with a sinking heart that the game was up; his arm was wrung with hacking and thrusting; his opponent, fresh to the fight, closed with him, leant over his saddle, and tried to grip him by the throat. At this moment there was a fierce shout, followed by a perfect babel of cries. The trooper fell from his horse, transfixed in the nick of time by Sherebiah’s sword; and when Harry after a few seconds was able once more to take in what was happening, he saw the place thick with burghers and peasants who were falling upon the enemy from both balustrades. Some had leapt on to the coping and were dealing heavy blows at the dragoons and their horses with sticks, hooks, scythes, and all kinds of strange implements; others were jabbing through the interstices of the balustrades; all were shouting, smiting, felling with a fierce vehemence that brooked no resistance. A panic seized upon the enemy; the unarmed men bolted to the stables behind the house and barricaded themselves there; the last files of the dragoons threw down their arms and begged for quarter; and, turning to Sherebiah, Harry bade him cry to the peasants, with the full force of his lungs, to hold their hands. A lull succeeded the turmoil. A crowd of the Dutch were hastening towards the stables to burst open the doors and make short work of the men sheltered there. To them Harry galloped up. "Men," he said, "halt! in the name of General van Santen. The victory is ours. We must await the general’s orders." The mob hesitated, then, with obedience compelled by their young leader’s mien, stood in sullen silence. Harry rode back to the opening of the drive, stationed two of the Dutch dragoons there, and addressed the colonel, who, with a lacerated cheek and contused shoulder, leant against the palings, a picture of chagrin, pain, and baffled rage.