“George, by Heaven!” he cried, as soon as he could get a glimpse of the features.  It was true; Matthew Blackett had saved his friend’s life at the risk of his own.  And it had been a risk, for a dozen bullets had splashed around him as he had hauled his heavy load along.

“Blackett!” exclaimed Fairburn, a moment or two later, when, recovering, he opened his eyes.  “Where’s your horse?”

“Done for, poor wretch!  And yours?”

“Shot under me, at the very first volley.  And it was you who dragged me out!  I shall remember it!  But here we are on the right side; come on!”

The lads gripped each other warmly by the hand, and side by side dashed on into the thick of the melee.  A large number of the allied cavalry had by this time made good their passage across, in spite of the fiercest opposition on the part of the enemy.  In vain Blackett urged his companion to withdraw and get himself away with his wounded arm.  George would not budge an inch.  It was only a flesh wound, it afterwards appeared.  So the two North-country lads stood by each other.  For an hour or more they were hotly engaged, the enemy falling back inch by inch.

Then came ringing cheers.  The French had abandoned the position; the famous and hitherto impregnable line of defences had been broken.  Our heroes breathed more freely when a short respite came.  But the interval of rest was short.  Colonel Rhodes, their commanding officer, catching sight of the pair, as he was collecting his men again, joyfully hailed them, and a minute later George and Matthew, provided once more with mounts, were cantering with the rest to the renewed attack.  The enemy had made another stand some distance farther back.

Another struggle, and this second position was like wise carried, with a grand sweep.  Victory was at hand.

Suddenly a startling report ran through the English lines.  The Duke was missing!  Where was the mighty General? was the question on every lip.  Somebody ran up and said a word to Colonel Rhodes.  Instantly the gallant officer and his men were galloping off to a distant part of the field, the troopers wondering what was afoot.  The explanation soon appeared.  Marlborough had become separated from the main body of his army, and now, with but a very few men around him, was in imminent danger of capture by the French troops, who were pouring thick upon the spot.

Colonel Rhodes charged at the head of his regiment straight upon the French, and a lane was cut through.  It was a matter of a few minutes.  The Duke was saved, and the enemy retired in woeful disappointment.  The first to reach the Duke were Blackett and Fairburn, and the lads were flushed with joy and pride when their distinguished leader, looking at them with a smile, said, with all his old pleasantness of manner, “Gentlemen, I thank you.”

The Brabant line of strongholds was broken.  Villeroy fell back, and Marlborough had his will on the defences.  No inconsiderable section of the belt was rendered useless.  No longer did an impassable barrier stretch between the Netherlands and France.  The importance of the victory could hardly be overstated.  As one writer has well pointed out, “All Marlborough’s operations had hitherto been carried on to the outside of these lines; thenceforward they were all carried on within them.”