The men listened to him and listened to Hope. Their spirit began to return to them. The ranks closed up. The march grew more regular, but the straggling did not altogether cease. The lure of home, the thought of rest after struggle, was too strong for some of them. Neal marched near the rear of the column. He had no thought of deserting a beaten side, of trying to save himself, but he knew that he could not go on for very long, and that he would not be able to reach Donegore. The boy whom he supported leaned heavily on him, until he almost had to carry him. The strain became more and more severe. He gave his musket to a comrade to carry for him. He lifted the boy upon his back and staggered on. After nearly an hour’s march Hope called a halt. Half a mile behind them on the road was a body of dragoons advancing rapidly. Hope drew his men up across the road, the few pikemen who were with him kneeling in front, the musketeers behind them. The dragoons came on at a trot. Then a word of command was given by their officer, and they galloped forward. Hope waited, and only at the last moment gave the word to fire. Horses and men fell. The charge was checked. A few staggered forward against the pikes. Most turned and fled. A wild cheer burst from Hope’s men. Without waiting for orders they rushed after the retreating dragoons. The misery of defeat was forgotten for a moment. They tasted the joy of victory again. But the horsemen rallied, turned on their pursuers, and rode through them, cutting with their sabres. Neal, who had sat down on the roadside after firing his musket, saw Hope trying to recall his men, saw Donald Ward far down the road gather a few pikemen round him and stand at bay. The dragoons, who had had enough of charging pikes, dismounted, unslung their carbines, and fired. Neal saw his uncle fall. Hope reformed his men and bade them load again, but the dragoons had no taste for another charge. Their officer was wounded. They turned and rode back towards Antrim. Hope gave the word to march again, but Neal could carry the boy no more. “I can’t do it,” he said. “We must stay here and take our chance.” “Go on,” said the boy, “go you on. I’ve been a sore trouble to you the day, have done with me now.” “I will not leave you,” said Neal, “we’ll take our chance together.” He watched Hope’s little force disappear up the road. Then he dragged the boy through the hedge into the meadow beyond it, and lay down in the deep grass. “Is your leg very bad?” said Neal. “It’s no that bad, only I canna walk. It’s bled a power, my stocking’s soaked with the blood. Maybe if we could tie it up better we might stop it and I’d get strength to go again.” Neal dragged the lining from his coat, and tore it into strips. He cut the stocking from the boy’s leg with his pocket-knife, and bandaged a long flesh wound as best he could. “Rest now,” he said, “and after a while we’ll try and get on a bit.”