him
like rain drops in a heavy shower. His clothes were cut by them. It
seemed a miracle that he did not fall. He began to sing, and this time
there was no one to forbid his "Marseillaise." Then, while his
voice rose to its highest, while he seemed, out there alone in the
bullet-swept street, a very incarnation of the battle spirit--the end
came for him. He flung up his arms, rose, staggered towards the shelter
of the churchyard, turned half round in the direction of the men who
fired at him, and dropped dead.

Lord Dunseveric stepped forward and tapped Neal on the shoulder.

"Listen," he said.

From the Belfast Road, along which the United Irishmen had marched in
the morning, came the sound of drums. Through the smoke it was possible
to discern dimly that a large body of troops was approaching the town.
There could be no doubt as to who they were. No reinforcements for
M'Cracken's army could be looked for from the south. Neal grasped the
meaning of what he saw. Hope's men in the graveyard, which they had held
so long, were caught between the soldiers in the demesne and these fresh
troops who marched on them. Others besides Neal saw what was happening.
The firing slackened. Here and there a man dropped his musket and
stared wildly around. At the top of the street the dragoons who had fled
appeared again. They attacked M'Cracken's pike-men once more, and this
time victoriously. Shaken by the fire of the soldiers behind the wall,
disheartened by the appearance of the enemy in their rear, these men,
who had fought so well, could fight no more. Some fled, some, with their
leader, faced the dragoons and, their pikes still forming a bristling
hedge in front of them, retired sullenly eastwards from the town.

The musketeers were left alone. Their position seemed desperate. Neal
stopped firing, and looked round. Hope stood bare-headed, his sword in
his hand.

"We have fought a good fight, men, and we'll fight again, but we must
get out of this now. Load and reserve your fire till I give the order.
Follow me."

He stepped into the street. His men, gaining courage from the cool
confidence of his voice, loaded their muskets and went after him.

"Neal," said Lord Dunseveric, "this is madness. Stay. There are at least
a thousand men in front of you. You can't cut your way through them."

But Neal did not listen. To him, for the moment, it was enough that Hope
was leading.

"Neal, Neal, don't leave me."

It was the voic