Now a man fell, then another, and still another, but still they
would not yield until at last there were left but three. From these, at
Hal's command, the British drew back to give them one more chance for
life; but they would not take it, and the British closed in again.
"Well," said Chester, a few moments later, "it's all over."
"But they fought well and bravely," said Hal, returning his sword to
its scabbard.
He looked around and took an account of his losses. Twelve British
soldiers lay dead upon the ground, and a score of others were nursing
their wounds--some serious, some only scratches. But there was no time to
dress these wounds now. There was other work to do.
"Mount!" cried Hal.
The troop obeyed, and Hal sprang into the saddle of a riderless horse.
His sword flashed forth once more.
"Forward!" he cried.
The little troop set off at a gallop.
To the north could be caught occasional glimpses of the North Sea, as the
sand dunes now and then permitted an unobstructed view. The party was at
the extreme north of the long battle line that stretched away to the
south, clear through Belgium and France.
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