I were engaged in mortal combat, and our prisoner was all but my
conqueror. Grappling with Cambaceres, whom I knocked from his horse, and
was about to despatch, I felt a lunge behind, which luckily was parried
by my sabretache; a herculean grasp was at the next instant at my
throat--I was on the ground--my prisoner had escaped, and a gigantic
warrior in the uniform of a colonel of the regiment of Artois glaring
over me with pointed sword.

"Rends-toi, coquin!" said he.

"Allez an Diable!" said I: "a Fogarty never surrenders."

I thought of my poor mother and my sisters, at the old house in
Killaloo--I felt the tip of his blade between my teeth--I breathed a
prayer, and shut my eyes--when the tables were turned--the butt-end of
Lanty Clancy's musket knocked the sword up and broke the arm that held
it.

"Thonamoundiaoul nabochlish," said the French officer, with a curse in
the purest Irish. It was lucky I stopped laughing time enough to bid
Lanty hold his hand, for the honest fellow would else have brained my
gallant adversary. We were the better friends for our combat, as what
gallant hearts are not?

The breach was to be stormed at sunset, and like true soldiers we
sat down to make the most of our time. The rogue of a Doctor took the
liver-wing for his share--we gave the other to our guest, a prisoner;
those scoundrels Jack Delamere and Tom Delaney took the legs--and,
'faith, poor I was put off with the Pope's nose and a bit of the back.