Desmond gathered his little band into a knot in the center of the inclosure.  Then the brazen sun looked down upon a Homeric struggle.  Bulger, brawny warrior of the iron hook, swung his musket like a flail, every now and again shooting forth his more sinister weapon with terrible effect.  Desmond, slim and athletic, dashed in upon the enemy with his half pike as they recoiled before Bulger’s whirling musket.  The rest, now a bare dozen, Bengalis though they were, presented still an undaunted front to the swarm that surged into the narrow space.  The hot air grew hotter with the fight.

To avoid being surrounded, the little band instinctively backed towards the edge of the nullah.  Diggle exulted as they were pressed remorselessly to the rear.  Not a man dreamed of surrender; the temper of the assailants was indeed so savage that nothing but the annihilation of their victims would now satisfy them.  Yet Diggle once again bethought himself that Desmond might be worth to him more alive than dead, and in the midst of the clamor Desmond heard him repeat his offer of reward to the man who should capture him.

Diggle himself resolved to make the attempt.  Venturing too near, he received an ugly gash from Desmond’s pike, promising a permanent mark from brow to chin.  This was too much for him.  Beside himself with fury, he yelled a command to his men to sweep the pigs over the brink, and, one side of his face livid with rage, the other streaming with blood, he dashed forward at Bulger, who had come up panting to engage him.

He had well timed his rush, for Bulger’s musket was at the far end of its pendulum swing, but the old seaman saw his danger in time.  With a movement of extraordinary agility in a man of his bulk, he swung on his heel, presenting his side to the rapier that flashed in Diggle’s hand.  Parrying the thrust with his hook, he shortened his stump and lunged at Diggle below the belt.  His enemy collapsed as if shot; but his followers swept forward over his prostrate body, and it seemed as if, in one brief half minute, the knot of defenders would be hurled to the bottom of the nullah.

But, at this critical moment, assailants and defenders were stricken into quietude by a tumultuous cheer, the cheer of Europeans, from the direction of the gap in the barricade.  Weapons remained poised in mid air; every man stood motionless, wondering whether the interruption came from friend or foe.  The question was answered on the instant.

“Now, men, have at them!”

With a thrill Desmond recognized the voice.  It was the voice of Silas Toley.  There was nothing of melancholy in it, nor in the expression of the New Englander as he sprang, cutlass in hand, through the gap.  Slow to take fire, when Toley’s anger was kindled it blazed with a devouring flame.  The crowd of assailants dissolved as if by magic.  Before the last of the crew of the Hormuzzeer, lascars and Europeans, had passed into the inclosure, the men of the Good Intent and their Bengali allies were streaming over and under the carts toward the open.