Before I had the sand well out of my eyes, my comrade was up and had his pike loose; and in a twinkling, the rebel was spitted through the middle and writhing. ’Twas sickening: but before I could pull out my pistol and end his pain (as I was minded), back came our front rank a-top of us again, and down they were driven like sheep, my companion catching up the dead man’s musket and ammunition bag, and I followed down the slope with three stout rebels at my heels. “What will be the end of _this?_” thought I. The end was, that after forty yards or so, finding the foremost close upon me, I turn’d about and let fly with my pistol at him. He spun round twice and dropp’d: which I was wondering at (the pistol being but a poor weapon for aim) when I was caught by the arm and pull’d behind a clump of bushes handy by. ’Twas the man with the wen, and by his smoking musket I knew that ’twas he had fired the shot that killed my pursuer. “Good turn for good turn,” says he: “quick with thy other pistol!” The other two had stopped doubtfully, but at the next discharge of my pistol they turn’d tail and went up the hill again, and we were left alone. And suddenly I grew aware that my head was aching fit to split, and lay down on the turf, very sick and ill. My comrade took no notice of this, but, going for the dead man’s musket, kept loading and firing, pausing now and then for his artillery to cool, and whistling a tune that runs in my head to this day. And all the time I heard shouts and cries and the noise of musketry all around, which made me judge that the attack was going on in many places at once. When I came to myself ’twas to hear a bugle below calling again to the charge, and once more came the two troops ascending. At their head was a slight built man, bare-headed, with the sun (that was by this, high over the hill) smiting on his brown curls, and the wind blowing them. He carried a naked sword in his hand, and waved his men forward as cheerfully as though ’twere a dance and he leading out his partner. “Who is that yonder?” asked I, sitting up and pointing. “Bless thy innocent heart!” said my comrade, “dostn’t thee know? Tis Sir Bevill.” * * * * * ’Twould be tedious to tell the whole of this long fight, which, beginning soon after sunrise, ended not till four in the afternoon, or thereabouts: and indeed of the whole my recollection is but of continual advance and repulse on that same slope. And herein may be seen the wisdom of our generals, in attacking while the main body of the enemy’s horse was away: for had the Earl of Stamford possessed a sufficient force of dragoons to let slip on us at the first discomfiture, there is little doubt he might have ended the battle there and then. As it was, the horse stood out of the fray, theirs upon the summit of the hill, ours (under Col. John Digby) on the other slope, to protect the town and act as reserve.