“To the doorway,” said Martin, “and remember what I told you.  Away with the bows, cold steel must do the rest.”

Now they stood by the open door, Martin, a helmet from the walls upon his head, tied beneath his chin with a piece of rope because it was too small for him, the great sword Silence lifted ready to strike, and Foy behind gripping the long pike with both hands.  Below them from the gathered mob of soldiers came a confused clamour, then a voice called out an order and they heard footsteps on the stair.

“Look out; they are coming,” said Martin, turning his head so that Foy caught sight of his face.  It was transfigured, it was terrible.  The great red beard seemed to bristle, the pale blue unshaded eyes rolled and glittered, they glittered like the blue steel of the sword Silence that wavered above them.  In that dread instant of expectancy Foy remembered his vision of the morning.  Lo! it was fulfilled, for before him stood Martin, the peaceful, patient giant, transformed into a Red Vengeance.

A man reached the head of the ladder, stepped upon one of the loose cannon-balls and fell with an oath and a crash.  But behind him came others.  Suddenly they turned the corner, suddenly they burst into view, three or four of them together.  Gallantly they rushed on.  The first of them caught his feet in the trap of the door and fell headlong across it.  Of him Martin took no heed, but Foy did, for before ever the soldier could rise he had driven his pike down between the man’s shoulders, so that he died there upon the door.  At the next Martin struck, and Foy saw this one suddenly grow small and double up, which, if he had found leisure to examine the nature of that wound, would have surprised him very little.  Another man followed so quickly that Martin could not lift the sword to meet him.  But he pointed with it, and next instant was shaking his carcase off its blade.

After this Foy could keep no count.  Martin slashed with the sword, and when he found a chance Foy thrust with the pike, till at length there were none to thrust at, for this was more than the Spaniards had bargained.  Two of them lay dead in the doorway, and others had been dragged or had tumbled down the ladder, while from the onlookers at the windows without, as they caught sight of them being brought forth slain or sorely wounded, went up shout upon shout of joy.

“So far we have done very well,” said Martin quietly, “but if they come up again, we must be cooler and not waste our strength so much.  Had I not struck so hard, I might have killed another man.”

But the Spaniards showed no sign of coming up any more; they had seen enough of that narrow way and of the red swordsman who awaited them in the doorway round the corner.  Indeed it was a bad place for attackers, since they could not shoot with arquebuses or arrows, but must pass in to be slaughtered like sheep at the shambles in the dim room beyond.  So, being cautious men who loved their lives, they took a safer counsel.