Just then Keona—­who, although wounded, hovered about doing as much mischief as he could with his left hand (which, by the way, seemed to be almost as efficient as his right)—­caught sight of this group of combatants on the banks of the stream.  He, with a party, had succeeded in forcing the bridge, and now uttering a shout of wild delight at the sight of his two greatest enemies within his power, as he thought, he rushed towards them, and darted his spear with unerring aim and terrible violence.  The man’s anger defeated his purpose; for the shout attracted the attention of Gascoyne, who saw the spear coming straight towards Henry’s breast.  He interposed the shovel instantly, and the spear fell harmless to the ground.  At the same time, with a back-handed sweep, he brained a gigantic savage who at the moment was engaging Henry’s undivided attention.  Bounding forward with a burst of anger, Gascoyne sought to close with Keona.  He succeeded but too well, however; for he could not check himself sufficiently to deliver an effective blow, but went crashing against his enemy, and the two fell to the ground.

In an instant a rush was made on the fallen man, but Henry leaped forward, and sweeping down two opponents with one cut of his claymore, afforded his companion time to leap up.

“Come, we are quits,” said Henry, with a grim smile, as the two darted again on the foe.

At that moment Ole Thorwald, having scattered the party he first engaged, came tearing down towards the bridge, whirling the great sword round his head, and shouting “victory” in the voice of a Stentor.

“Ha! here is more work,” he cried, as his eye fell on Gascoyne’s figure.  “Thorwald to the rescue,—­hurrah!”

In another moment the savages were flying pell-mell across the bridge with Gascoyne and Henry close on their heels, and the stout merchant panting after them, with his victorious band, as fast as his less agile limbs could carry him.

It was at this moment that Gascoyne and Henry noticed the attack made on the small party of sailors, and observed the fall of Mr. Mason.

“Thorwald to the rescue!” shouted Gascoyne, in a voice that rolled deep and loud over the whole field like the roar of a lion.

“Aye, aye, my noisy stranger; it’s easy for your tough limbs to carry you up the hill,” gasped Ole; “but the weight of ten or fifteen years will change your step.  Hurrah!”

The cry of the bold Norseman, coupled with that of Gascoyne, had the double effect of checking the onset of the enemy, and of collecting their own scattered forces around them.  The battle was now drawing to a point.  Men who were skirmishing in various places left off and hastened to the spot on which the closing scene was now evidently to be enacted; and for a few minutes the contending parties paused, as if by mutual consent, to breathe and scan each other before making the final attack.