Baldry himself?  Surely he was among them!—­in that shadowy pass was not this his great form—­or this—­or this?

“Baldry!  Robert Baldry!” cried Sedley, and there came no answer.  High and shrill as a woman’s wail rang again the young man’s voice.  “Captain Robert Baldry!”

“He’s not here, sir,” said a Devon man, softly.  “God rest his soul!”

Sedley raised his white face to the stars, then:  “On men, on!  We’ve to help Sir John, you know!” Tone of voice, raised arm, and waving hand, subtle and elusive likeness to the leader whom he worshipped, upon whom he had moulded himself—­for the moment it was as though Sir Mortimer Ferne had cried encouragement to their sunken hearts, was beckoning them on to ultimate victory plucked from present defeat.  A cheer, wavering, broken, touched with hysteria, broke from throats that were dry with the horror of past moments.  On with Henry Sedley, their leader now, they struggled, making what mad haste they might through the tunal.

In wrath and grief, set of face, hot of heart, they burst at last from the tunal into the open with sky and sea, the plain, the town and the river before them—­the river where the ships lay in safety, the Cygnet and the Phoenix close in shore, the Mere Honour and the Marigold in midstream.  The ships in safety—­then what meant those distant cries, that thrice repeated booming of a signal gun, that glare upon the river, those two boats filled with rowers making mad haste up the stream, that volley from the Mere Honour’s stern guns beneath which sank one of the hurrying craft?

Turned to stone they upon the hillside watched disaster at her work.  The Cygnet was a noble ship, co-equal in size and strength with the Mere Honour, well beloved and well defended.  Now for one instant of time a great leap of flame from her decks lit all the scene and showed her in her might; it was followed by a frightful explosion, and the great ship, torn from her anchorage, wrecked forever, a flaming hulk, a torch, a pyre, a potent of irremediable ruin, bore down the swift current and struck the Phoenix....  Once more the Mere Honour’s cannon thundered loud appeal and warning.  In the red light cast by her destroyer the galleon began to sink, and that so rapidly that her seamen threw themselves overboard.  Yet burning, the Cygnet kept on her way.  Borne by the tide she passed from the narrow to the wider waters; to-night a waning star, the morn might find her a blackened derelict, if indeed there was sign of her at all upon the surface of the sea.

Around the base of the hill swept the Admiral and his force.  Vain had been the attack upon the fortress, heavy the loss of the English, but it was not the Spanish guns which had caused that retreat.  Where were Robert Baldry and his men?  What strange failure, unlooked-for disaster, portended that heavy firing at the rear of the fortress?...  The signal gun!  The ships!