“This will not do,” rang out the voice of their leader. “We must try them hand to hand. After me, my lads!” Leaping the orchard fence they met the enemy hand to hand, but still pushing forward to where the boats were lying in the river. The trees that grew closer here and were covered with their summer foliage, protected them from the fire of the foot who lay on the other side. Then Gervase saw Macpherson in front of him stumble and fall, and he feared it was all over with the brave old soldier. But he was on his feet before Gervase could reach him. “Don´t tarry for me,” he said, as Gervase seeing him stagger forward, took him by the arm. “Make what haste you can and do not mind for me. This trifle will not stop me.” “We´ll find our way together then. Hold on a little longer and we´ll reach the boats in spite of them. Ah! that is bravely done.” From tree to tree and from hedge to hedge the men of the garrison cut their way, presenting a front, that though ragged and broken, sent the enemy to right and left. Then they reached the open space by the river, and restraining the impulse that would have driven them to rush to the boats, fell back slowly and steadily. The wounded whom they carried with them were first helped on board, and then they rapidly embarked; the last man to leave the bank being Murray, who with his sword held in his teeth pushed off the boat into the deep water. How they lived through the storm of bullets that were rained upon them Gervase hardly knew, but barely a man was touched, and they sent back a ringing cheer of defiance as they passed rapidly beyond reach of the muskets. It was a glorious, if fruitless and foolhardy deed--one which only brave men would have undertaken in a spirit of despair, but one that they might look back on in after years with pride for the glory of it. The deed was done in sight of all the city. Their friends had watched the charge from the walls, and seen the stubborn fight for safety, and now they poured out to meet them as they came through Ship Quay Gate, and welcomed them back as if they had come in triumph. From want of the sacred poet their names have grown dim through the gathered years, but they did not fight for renown--only simple men who sought to do their homely duty. Macpherson´s wound had proved a trifling one after all, and with the help of Gervase he was able to make his way home on foot. A spent bullet had struck him on the knee, and the wound though painful, was not likely to incapacitate him for service. He thought, on the whole, they had had a pleasant morning´s work, and declared that with such stirring entertainment he would need but half his rations. CHAPTER XIII. OF A STRATAGEM OF WAR.