The night was pitch-dark, and the three detachments marched out in perfect silence. The Spaniards had no suspicion of an attack until the first division was directly at the outer line of fortifications. Then the sentries quickly gave the word, the drums beat the alarm, and the camp of fourteen thousand men was roused in an instant. The first onslaught, however, of the British was irresistible. They overpowered the guard, and the work of firing and destroying the guns and fortifications immediately began. Before the Spanish Commander-in-Chief, in the darkness and confusion, could get his troops under arms the blowing up of the magazines had begun, and whole batteries of guns had been spiked. The bastions and gabions were fired, and so rapid and thorough were the British in their work that it was all over before the Spaniards realized what was happening, and the British were making for the Land Port gate.

The Spanish camp had been thrown into the greatest confusion, and their first line of fortifications was now past saving. The noise and the bursting out of flames and the explosions of powder were dreadful, but all were between the British and their foes. The losses of the detachment had been trifling, and Archy Baskerville had found nothing to do except to stand off and watch the quick progress of events. But while the three divisions were retreating rapidly and in good order to the gate, he saw in a ditch in front of him an officer lying on his side and groaning with agony.

HE SAW AN OFFICER LYING IN A DITCH

"Help here!" cried Archy; and in another moment Judkins was at his side, and the two had the officer on a stretcher and were carrying him with a rush towards the British lines, the officer meanwhile feebly protesting.

"No, no," he cried; "let there be one Spaniard to die with honor at his post."

And in a moment more, by the light of burning timbers and bursting bombs, Archy saw that he was the young Walloon officer, Von Helmstadt, whom he had seen months before at the time of his first effort to get out of the fortress. Day was breaking as they carried him fainting into the hospital. The surgeons managed to revive him, and then, examining him, told him he must lose his leg.

"No, no," he cried; "better to die at once! Why did not that brave young man leave me to my fate? All would have been over by this time."

Archy could stand no more, but rushed out and up to Europa Point, where he found Mrs. Curtis watching and waiting.

"I have not been in my bed this night," she said. Archy, with a bursting heart, told her of Von Helmstadt. He had a deep feeling of sympathy for the young Walloon officer, so far from home, and in such heart-breaking straits. There was, however, little else but rejoicing on the Rock that day, for the result of the sortie was in the highest degree favorable to the besieged. The Spaniards saw in two hours the complete destruction of what had cost them months of labor and millions of money to construct. They seemed paralyzed by their loss, and for a while the besieged had a respite.

But there was no respite in the blockade. The supplies left by Rodney's fleet were beginning to grow very scant, and although all eyes in the garrison every morning for months scanned the sea for the sails of a British fleet, none appeared. As the year 1780 drew to a close the prospects of the garrison grew darker. The sufferings of the sick were acute, and none more so than those of poor Von Helmstadt, who daily grew worse. He resisted the taking-off of his leg, which the doctors told him was the only means of saving his life, until at last General Eliot himself went to his bedside and begged him to submit.

"I have a reason, sir," replied Von Helmstadt. "I am engaged to marry a beautiful and charming girl. If I lose my leg and live, how can I ask her to tie herself to a mutilated creature, as I shall be, for life? Yet I know her constancy so well that I am sure she will be the more determined on fulfilling her promise to me."

"But your duty to your country," argued General Eliot, "and your duty to your family? Have you not a mother, a father—some one whose heart would be broken if you sacrifice your life to this?"

Von Helmstadt remained silent for a moment.

"Yes," he said, after a pause, while his eyes filled with tears, "I have a mother and a father, too. You are right, General. It is my duty to live, even if I live mutilated."

The whole garrison took the deepest interest in this brave young man. The best of their poor supplies was reserved for him, and nothing was too much to be done for him in the hope, at least, of lessening his sufferings. Archy and Judkins became heroes as his rescuers. Every day Archy visited him, and was received affectionately by him, even in his utmost misery. His patience was so touching, his courage so unbroken, that often Archy would leave the bedside completely unmanned by the sight of Von Helmstadt's sufferings, and the sorrowful conviction that all was in vain. Nor was the heroic young officer forgotten by his own friends, and daily flags of truce came to inquire after him and to bring messages and letters from his comrades.

He bore the agony of amputation with extraordinary bravery, but after a day or two of hope he grew very ill, and soon it was seen that the end was near.

Never had Archy Baskerville in his life felt so painful an interest as in this gallant young man, whom he had helped to save from one death only to see him die in a more lingering and distressing manner. They were the only two souls within the gates of the beleaguered fortress who had not common cause with the besieged. At last, after four weeks of suffering, the end came on Christmas Eve. The time itself was solemn instead of joyful, and it was made more sad by the death of the brave young prisoner for whom every one in the fortress felt such tender sympathy. The Spaniards were notified immediately that the body would be carried to them the next day with military honors.

Never could Archy Baskerville forget the Christmas of 1780. It was a beautiful, mild day, but to those brave souls imprisoned and fighting for their lives on the Rock of Gibraltar there was a melancholy glory in the day which seemed to make their situation the more poignant. Want and scarcity prevailed in all things except the implements of war and destruction. There was no Christmas cheer, but the congregations that assembled in the garrison chapel and the Catholic church in the town were quiet and resigned, like people who have ever before them the prospect of death and bereavement. As soon as the morning services were over the sad procession was formed to carry Von Helmstadt's body to the Spaniards. It was determined to take it by water, and all the boats in the little squadron were drawn up at the new mole for the escort, while on the Spanish side a similar procession was waiting to move.

The flag on the hospital was at half-mast, and a large detachment of troops, with all the highest officers of the garrison, and a body of seamen and marines under Captain Curtis's command, was formed to receive the body when it was brought out. Archy Baskerville, as the one who had brought the young Walloon officer in, was given a place among the mourners who followed the gun-carriage on which the coffin lay, wrapped in the Spanish flag.

To the solemn strains of the dead-march and the booming of minute-guns the procession moved, followed by General Eliot as chief mourner, with many officers of high rank, and Archy Baskerville, the youngest person among them, walking in the last line. They reached the new mole presently, where the body was transferred to the first cutter of the Enterprise, and Captain Curtis then took command. At the same moment that the boats put off from the British side the procession started from the Spanish side. Midway in the bay they met, when the Spaniards received the body, and the British cutters turned back. Out of respect to the Spaniards, who would not have understood the custom, the British refrained from playing the lively airs with which they endeavor to lighten the hearts of the men returning from a comrade's funeral, and slowly and solemnly they pulled back to their own ground.

Never had the prospects of Archy Baskerville's reaching France seemed more improbable than on that melancholy Christmas night of 1780. Yet within twenty-four hours he found himself far beyond both the British and Spanish lines, and free—free to take his desperate chances of escape through a country where he might at any moment be mistaken for an Englishman, and where an Englishman could expect no mercy.

The evening of Christmas Day was one of mist and gloom. Archy had spent the early part of the afternoon in the hut at Europa, where they had made a little festival, such as their poor means allowed, for Dolly, and she and Judkins had sung them a Christmas hymn; and then, as people will in sad times, they had sat around the scanty fire and told of happy Christmas-times in the past. Archy felt strangely unhappy. Besides the sorrows of their own condition, he had heart-breaking anxieties about his country and the mortal struggle in which she was engaged, and even his hopeful and buoyant spirit gave way under the misery and monotony of the long months of the siege.

About eight o'clock they separated—Captain Curtis and Langton to return to their ship, and Archy, out of pure restlessness, going down to the shore with them. Mrs. Curtis's last words spoke the hope and cheerfulness which seemed to dwell in every one of the heroic women on the Rock.

"Good-night, Archy," she said. "All will be bright in the morning," and Dolly swung round his neck, asking:

"Why don't you laugh, Archy, and be merry, and make us all laugh, as you always do?"

"Because I can't now, Dolly," answered Archy, kissing her and putting her down. "But next time you see me I will be just as gay as a bird."

Then, with Captain Curtis and Langton, he started for the shore. At the mole the Enterprise boat was waiting, and the last that Archy heard in the darkness of a misty night was a cheery "Good-night—good-night!" from Captain Curtis and Langton. Long time was it to be before he was to hear those well-loved voices again. Archy walked along the shore towards the isthmus in the dusky evening. He kept close to the shore, listening to the boom of the waves, and so absorbed in his own melancholy thoughts that he scarcely noticed where he was going. The shore was well patrolled, and it was common enough for him to walk there in the evening.

At one point within the English lines a number of small boats were tied to a huge stake, and into one of these Archy stepped and seated himself. The sentry who was passing looked curiously at him, and then, saluting, went on. He was a man in the garrison who knew Archy personally, and he did not think it strange that the young American midshipman should pause in his walk and rest a while in the boat.

The mist was gathering fast, and the wind was sweeping in from the Mediterranean, and it was growing very dark. Archy was roused by hearing the nine-o'clock gun fired. He lifted his head and the thought came—

"I shall have to communicate with Captain Curtis, so as to pass the sentries and get back to Europa."

He turned to spring ashore, but he found the line had parted, and the boat had drifted out a considerable distance. He felt in the bottom for oars. There were none. The darkness had descended like a pall, and the wind suddenly became a gust. He could see nothing, but he knew that wind and tide were driving him towards the Spanish lines. He was by nature well-equipped to meet danger, and in a moment his brooding depression—the rarest of moods for him—gave place to coolness, calmness, and perfect self-possession. He was a good swimmer, and quickly determined that his best chance lay in swimming ashore as soon as the boat drifted near enough. He took off his jacket and shoes, fastened them into a bundle under his arm, and, fixing his eyes on the lights on shore, quietly waited until they grew nearer.

All at once a flood of black rain descended that blotted out everything. The wind seemed to blow from all quarters at the same instant, and the boat's head swung round. The lights both on sea and shore disappeared, and Archy was drifting he knew not where.

He reflected that he was in no great danger of being upset, and if he drifted far enough he would be in the midst of the Spanish fleet. But in the darkness he had no idea how fast the boat was moving—he only knew the tide was swift and strong. Nor could he measure very well the time he had been in the boat. He listened intently for the striking of the bells in the little English squadron, but after straining his ears for an interminable time it seemed to him, as he sat in the little boat that rushed through the seething water in the blackness of darkness, the conviction came to him that he was far out of reach of that friendly and encouraging sound.

He could see neither to the right nor to the left of him, and at that moment he had an almost overpowering impulse to jump out of the boat and swim, so trying were the sitting still and being swept he knew not where; but he said to himself:

"If I were swimming about in the darkness, how glad I would be if my hand struck this boat—how eagerly I would climb in! No; I'll stick to the boat until I can see more than ten feet ahead of me."

Ages passed, it seemed to him, for every hour is an age in such circumstances. He thought the day would never come. At last, when the dawn seemed as far off as ever—it was really only two o'clock in the morning—the rain ceased, and the atmosphere cleared enough for him to see that he was near the shore; and oh, joy! there was a light! He felt sure that he was far beyond the Spanish lines.

As his sharp eyes pierced the dim and unearthly light, which was increased by the declining moon that shone fitfully out of a still stormy sky, he saw that he was on a broken and irregular coast, and a black mass, from which he could faintly discern the light, he took to be buildings. He saw that he was being carried closer to the shore every moment, and in a little while he was near enough to jump overboard, not forgetting his jacket and shoes, and a few bold strokes landed him once more on hard earth.

His first impulse was of sincere thankfulness. One of the great lessons he had learned of his immortal commander, Paul Jones, was that man should recognize his Maker, and he had never seen that great man either go into or come out of any danger without commending himself to the Most High; and having done this, Archy proceeded to follow Paul Jones's example further by taking the most active and energetic measures on his own account. He saw that he was approaching a homestead, large and imposing, with numerous outbuildings, and when he was close to it he saw that the light came from a small addition to the main pile, which was built around a court-yard, after the Spanish fashion.

Archy's quick mind had grasped the fact that if he spoke English he would at once be taken for either a spy or a deserter, and as he did not relish figuring in either of these characters, he determined to rely upon his small stock of French, and still smaller stock of Spanish, which last he had picked up while at Gibraltar.

Wet and shivering, and carrying his drenched jacket and shoes, he cautiously approached the small, unshuttered window from which the light proceeded, and peered in. The room was very humble, apparently that of an upper servant. A lamp had been left burning, and on the hearth fire still smouldered. A wooden platter with some food on it was on the hearth. The room was quite empty, and Archy shrewdly suspected that it was, perhaps, the quarters of some privileged servant, who had gone out for a time, expecting to return, and had not come back. As food and fire were what he most wanted then, he concluded that it was the part of wisdom to help himself; so he softly raised the window and climbed in, only to find, on trying it, that the door was open, and he might have entered that way.

He thought it best not to fasten either the door or window, but to proceed and make himself comfortable. A pile of fagots lay in a corner, and in half a minute he had a roaring fire. He had no great fancy for sitting in wet clothes, and seeing a cupboard in a corner, he opened it, expecting to find probably a footman's outfit. But, instead, there was a handsome and complete costume of a Spanish peasant—a green velvet jacket, brown cloth knee-breeches with silver buttons, leggings, shoes, and a red cap.

Archy, promptly stripping off his drenched clothing and hanging it at the fire to dry, after removing his money, watch, and pocket-knife, proceeded to array himself in the warm, dry garments before him; and then, surveying himself in a piece of cracked mirror on the wall, he could not suppress a grin, thinking:

"I wonder what Pedro, or Sancho, or whatever his name is, will say when he finds I have appropriated his Sunday clothes!"

In the same cupboard was a small skin of the sour wine used by the peasantry. Archy made a wry face over the uninviting draught, but drank some, and then cleaned the platter neatly of a vast quantity of garlic-and-onion dressed stuff, which he relished exceedingly—after which he felt quite himself again. He concluded to sally forth and make a reconnoissance of his position, and, closing the door softly behind him, was again under the murky night sky. In another small room he saw lights and heard faint sounds of carousing. The servants were evidently making a night of it. In the huge, dim court-yard a large leather-covered coach stood where the mules had been unhitched from it.

While Archy was looking at this vast old machine he saw the door open from which the sounds of subdued merrymaking had come, and several servants sallied forth. Archy involuntarily opened the coach door softly and got in, and, the better to hear, he laid himself almost flat on the long and broad front seat of the coach, which was piled with cloaks and blankets, and through a crack in the leather curtain could see and hear everything.

"I wish Don Miguel was not in such a hurry to start for Madrid in the morning. Going off before sunrise and travelling until dark doesn't suit my constitution," grumbled one of them.

"Never mind, Pedro. That comes of living with grand people like Don Miguel de Lima. They are always more trouble than any others. Thank the saints that my people are plain country gentlemen and ladies. They don't travel any. They haven't been thirty miles from home in thirty years."

Pedro, leaning up against the coach wheel, continued to grumble:

"And Don Miguel, because he was bred in the army, likes everything done at double-quick. I don't believe he even takes a siesta. And he can't be worried and fretted into giving up his own way, as some masters and mistresses can. He is the coolest old martinet I ever saw—I don't believe the devil himself could disconcert him."

The servants seemed to have no notion of going to bed, but continued to gossip in whispers. Archy listened with all his ears. Madrid! That meant liberty! If only he could get to Madrid with Don Miguel—but how could it be managed? At all events, he meant to strike out for the French frontier when daylight came—at the worst, he could only be caught and imprisoned again. Possibly he might lose his life—but Archy's was a mind which harbored hope and drove fear out of the window. He remembered his wet clothes by the fire, and dreaded to see Pedro or Sancho go towards the back of the house. It was cold in the coach. So Archy covered himself up warmly as he lay and awaited events. He never felt more wide awake in his life, but the warmth, the rest, the food, and the sour wine were too much for him, and he suddenly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.