opened, the mines previously excavated were sprung, a part of the demilune was blown into the air, and the assailants sprang into the breach.  Again a furious hand-to-hand conflict succeeded; again, after an obstinate resistance, the townspeople were forced to yield.  Slowly abandoning the shattered fort, they retired behind the breastwork in its rear—­their innermost and last defence.  To this barrier they clung as to a spar in shipwreck, and here at last they stood at bay, prepared dearly to sell their lives.

The breastwork, being still strong, was not attempted upon that day.  The assailants were recalled, and in the mean time a herald was sent by Parma, highly applauding the courage of the defenders, and begging them to surrender at discretion.  They answered the messenger with words of haughty defiance, and, rushing in a mass to the breastwork, began with spade, pickax, and trowel, to add to its strength.  Here all the able-bodied men of the town took up their permanent position, and here they ate, drank, and slept upon their posts, while their food was brought to them by the women and children.

A little letter, “written in a fine neat handwriting,” now mysteriously arrived in the city, encouraging them in the name of the Archduke and the Prince of Orange, and assuring them of relief within fourteen days.  A brief animation was thus produced, attended by a corresponding languor upon the part of the besiegers, for Alexander had been lying ill with a fever since the day when the demilune had been carried.  From his sick bed he rebuked his officers severely that a temporary breastwork, huddled together by boors and burghers in the midst of a siege, should prove an insurmountable obstacle to men who had carried everything before them.  The morrow was the festival of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, and it was meet that so sacred a day should be hallowed by a Christian and Apostolic victory.  Saint Peter would be there with, his keys to open the gate; Saint Paul would lead them to battle with his invincible sword.  Orders were given accordingly, and the assault was assigned for the following morning.

Meantime, the guards were strengthened and commanded to be more than usually watchful.  The injunction had a remarkable effect.  At the dead of night, a soldier of the watch was going his rounds on the outside of the breastwork, listening, if perchance he might catch, as was not unusual, a portion of the conversation among the beleaguered burghers within.  Prying about on every side, he at last discovered a chink in the wall, the result, doubtless, of the last cannonade, and hitherto overlooked.  He enlarged the gap with his fingers, and finally made an opening wide enough to admit his person.  He crept boldly through, and looked around in the clear starlight.  The sentinels were all slumbering at their posts.  He advanced stealthily in the dusky streets.  Not a watchman was going his rounds.  Soldiers, burghers, children, women, exhausted by incessant fatigue, were all asleep.  Not a footfall was heard; not a whisper broke the silence; it seemed a city of the dead.  The soldier crept back through the crevice, and hastened to apprise his superiors of his adventure.