John Nevil and his company left attacking forever the fortress of Nueva Cordoba, and rushed down the hillside towards plain and river.  Forth from the town burst Ambrose Wynch with the guard which had been left in the square—­but where were Robert Baldry and his men?  Were these they—­this dwindled band staggering, leaping down from the heights, led by Henry Sedley, gray, exhausted, speaking in whispers or in strained, high voices?  No time was there for explanation, bewildered conjecture, tragic apprehension.  Scarcely had the three parties joined, when hard upon their heels came De Guardiola and all his men-at-arms.  Nevil wheeled, fought them back, set face again to the river, but his adversaries chose not to have it so.

They achieved their purpose, for he gave them battle on the plain, at his back the red light from the river, before him that bitter, triumphant fortress.  Hard and long did they fight in a death struggle, fierce and implacable, where quarter was neither asked nor given.  Nevil himself bore a charmed life, but many a gentleman adventurer, many a simple soldier or mariner gasped his last upon Spanish pike or sword.  Not fifty paces from the river bank Henry Sedley received his quietus.  He had fought as one inspired, all his being tempered to a fine agong of endeavor too high for suffering or for thought.  So now when Arden caught him, falling, it was with an unruffled brow and a smile remote and sweet that he looked up at the other’s haggard, twisted features.

“My knighthood’s yet to seek,” he said.  “It matters not.  Tell my Captain that as I fought for him here, so I wait for him in Christ His court.  Tell my sister Damaris—­” He was gone, and Arden, rising, slew the swordsman to whom his death was due.

Still fighting, the English reached the brim of the river and the boats that were hidden there.  The Mere Honour and the Marigold were now their cities of refuge.  Lost was the town, lost any hope of the fortress and what it contained, lost the Cygnet and the Phoenix, lost Henry Sedley and Robert Baldry and many a gallant man besides, lost Sir Mortimer Ferne.  Gall and vinegar and Dead Sea fruit and frustrated promise this night held for them who had been conquerors and confident.

They saw the Cygnet, yet burning, upon her way to the open sea; from the galleon San Jose it was gone to join the caravels.  Wreckage strewed the river’s bosom, and for those who had manned the two ships, destroyer and destroyed, where were they?  Down with the allegartos and the river slime—­yet voyaging with the Cygnet—­rushing, a pale accusing troop towards God’s justice bar?...  The night was waxing old, the dawn was coming.  Upon the Mere Honour Baptist Manwood, a brave and honest soul who did his duty, steered his ship, encouraged his men, fought the Spaniard and made no more ado, trained his guns upon the landing, and with their menace kept back the enemy while, boatload after boatload, the English left the bank and reached in safety the two ships that were left them.