Carvahal, who was standing a little in advance of the others, put his buckler up and his head down, and with his sword shortened in his right hand ran like a charging bull at Ruminavi. But the old warrior had fought too many fights in that style to be taken unawares. As Carvahal rushed blindly on he stepped aside with the lightness of a youth, and as he passed brought his mace down between his shoulders, and with a cry that was half a gasp and half a groan Carvahal stumbled and fell, and the next moment the first rank of the spearmen had leapt over his body and flung themselves on the Spaniards. Even now, if it had only been man to man and weapon to weapon, the assault would have been repelled, for, in spite of their tough armour and long swords, the rush of the well-drilled spearmen drove the Spaniards back and huddled them into a heap. But just at the critical moment, as they were being crushed up against a terrace wall by the sheer weight of the column that had hurled itself against them, there rang out far to the rear a hoarse roaring shout-- “Dios y Santiago! lay on for God and Spain--lay on!” and then came the ever-dreaded thunder of horses’ hoofs, mingled with yells of terror and screams of pain and the fierce clink--clink--clink of smiting steel. The charging spearmen stopped in the very moment of victory, as though paralysed by the dreaded sound. In vain Ruminavi, who had already smitten ben-Alcazar lifeless to the ground and broke Michael Asterre’s sword-arm with a blow of his mace, alternately cursed and cheered them on. Three or four arquebusiers scaled the wall and levelled their pieces. The “thunder-pipes” belched out their flame and smoke, and the balls, fired at less than five paces, tore through rank after rank of the close-packed spearmen and completed the panic. They broke their formation and ran, some leaping over into the terrace below, others swarming like cats up the third wall, but most of them going down pierced and slashed by the Spanish steel. Meanwhile a troop of Don Hernando’s horse had come tearing along the terrace, riding down and trampling over a crowd of fugitives before them, and in the fast-closing gap between the Spanish horse and foot stood Ruminavi, still unwounded yet seemingly devoted to certain death.