A sort of a wild Portuguese demon, who seemed either fierce-mad or fierce-drunk—­but, they all seemed one or the other—­came forward with the black flag, and gave it a wave or two.  After that, the Portuguese captain called out in shrill English, “I say you!  English fools!  Open the gate!  Surrender!”

As we kept close and quiet, he said something to his men which I didn’t understand, and when he had said it, the one-eyed English rascal with the patch (who had stepped out when he began), said it again in English.  It was only this.  “Boys of the black flag, this is to be quickly done.  Take all the prisoners you can.  If they don’t yield, kill the children to make them.  Forward!” Then, they all came on at the gate, and in another half-minute were smashing and splitting it in.

We struck at them through the gaps and shivers, and we dropped many of them, too; but, their very weight would have carried such a gate, if they had been unarmed.  I soon found Sergeant Drooce at my side, forming us six remaining marines in line—­Tom Packer next to me—­and ordering us to fall back three paces, and, as they broke in, to give them our one little volley at short distance.  “Then,” says he, “receive them behind your breastwork on the bayonet, and at least let every man of you pin one of the cursed cockchafers through the body.”

We checked them by our fire, slight as it was, and we checked them at the breastwork.  However, they broke over it like swarms of devils—­they were, really and truly, more devils than men—­and then it was hand to hand, indeed.

We clubbed our muskets and laid about us; even then, those two ladies—­always behind me—­were steady and ready with the arms.  I had a lot of Maltese and Malays upon me, and, but for a broadsword that Miss Maryon’s own hand put in mine, should have got my end from them.  But, was that all?  No.  I saw a heap of banded dark hair and a white dress come thrice between me and them, under my own raised right arm, which each time might have destroyed the wearer of the white dress; and each time one of the lot went down, struck dead.

Drooce was armed with a broadsword, too, and did such things with it, that there was a cry, in half-a-dozen languages, of “Kill that sergeant!” as I knew, by the cry being raised in English, and taken up in other tongues.  I had received a severe cut across the left arm a few moments before, and should have known nothing of it, except supposing that somebody had struck me a smart blow, if I had not felt weak, and seen myself covered with spouting blood, and, at the same instant of time, seen Miss Maryon tearing her dress and binding it with Mrs. Fisher’s help round the wound.  They called to Tom Packer, who was scouring by, to stop and guard me for one minute, while I was bound, or I should bleed to death in trying to defend myself.  Tom stopped directly, with a good sabre in his hand.

In that same moment—­all things seem to happen in that same moment, at such a time—­half-a-dozen had rushed howling at Sergeant Drooce.  The Sergeant, stepping back against the wall, stopped one howl for ever with such a terrible blow, and waited for the rest to come on, with such a wonderfully unmoved face, that they stopped and looked at him.