Just there the heavy stillness of the church was broken by a jarring rattle of carabine fire that sent a cracking echo through the high roof. Looking over his shoulder Hugh saw gray smoke belch across the nave, and saw the ordered movement of the men as the second line, with their carabines raised, stepped forward to the breach. Right as he looked the second volley rolled out, and there came a cracked and dry-throated cheering from the men. “Four volleys left,” he heard Hardwyn beside him mutter. “Best cheer while we can.”
Once more there was a lull, and Hugh, getting his sound hand on the window ledge, pulled himself up, balancing precariously upon the broken boards, and peered out. He could see the white walk that ran up to the porch, and on either hand the untroubled graves, but he beheld no enemy astir. Venturing to lean a little from the window, he saw the roadway beyond the church wall, the arch of the bridge, the water beneath, bright in the sun, and across it the slope of hillside road. There Hugh’s eyes rested, and then his voice came high and shrill so he scarcely knew it: “Hardwyn, look, look you there! What is coming?”
Hardwyn was elbowing him at the window; through the crash of the fourth volley he heard the barrier creak under the weight of the rest of the little squadron as they pressed up about him. But he did not take his eyes from the hilltop till, black and clear against the sky, a moving line of horse swung into view.
“Cavalry, sir,” spoke Hardwyn, imperturbably, but Hugh had already turned from the window. “Run to the captain, Saxon,” he cried. “Tell him they are coming. Relief, relief!” His voice rose to a shout that carried through the church, and his squadron took up the cry, and ended with a cheer that spread even to the fighters at the breach.
Through the uproar sounded Captain Gwyeth’s voice: “If they will have it, out at them!”
The besieged swarmed forth at the breach, and Hugh, plunging headlong down off the barrier, ran to join them. The stones slipped noisily beneath his feet, and as he stumbled over the crest of the debris he turned his ankle. Outside the hot blur of sunshine dazzled him; he was conscious of light, light all around him, and men, grappling, clubbing, stabbing, in a tumult that bewildered his brain. Loud amidst the shrieks and oaths and cries for quarter rattled the crack, crack of carabines and small arms, but through it all he could hear the hollow thud, thud of horses thundering across the bridge. Some one struck at him, and instinctively he defended himself, though it was hard to swing a sword in the press. Then, getting sight of his father’s red head, clear from the breach in the thick of the fight, he forced his way down to his side. At the foot of the fallen stones he stumbled over a man and, as he recovered himself, came one who tried to strike him with a clubbed musket. Hugh ducked, and, as he bent, saw the trampled grass beneath his feet, then, thrusting low, came away unscathed. Still he heard the thud, thud of coming horses, and now, too, he caught clearly from the undistinguishable shouts and yells the cry: “For a king! God and the king!”