and the Royalist horsemen, there emerged a compact body of
troopers, in steel caps and corslets. Forming in ranks of three abreast,
they charged over the bridge, and speedily cleared off the Royalists who
were struggling to obtain a footing there.

There was small speech on the hill side, as the encounter was watched,
and the Ironsides forming on the other side, charged the already broken
troops before they had time to rally, and there was nothing to be
seen but an utter dispersion and scattering of men, looking from that
distance like ants when their nest has been broken into.

It was only a skirmish, not to be heard of in history, but opening the
way for the besiegers to the walls of Bristol, and preventing any of
the supplies from reaching the garrison, or any of the intended
reinforcements, except some of the eager Cavaliers, who galloped on
thither, when they found it impossible to return and guard the bridge
for their companions.

The struggle was over around the bridge in less than two hours, but no
more of Lady Elmwood's harvest was gathered in that evening. The people
watched as if they could not tear themselves from the contemplation
of the successful bands gathering together in their solid masses, and
marching onwards in the direction of Bristol, leaving, however, a strong
guard at the bridge, over which piled waggons and beasts of burthen
continued to pass, captured no doubt and prevented from relieving the
city. It began to draw towards evening, and Master Brown was beginning
to observe that he must go and report to my lady, poor soul; and as to
the corn, well, they had lost a day gaping at the fight, and they must
come up again to-morrow, he only hoped they were not carting it for the
round-headed rogues; when at that moment there was a sudden cry, first
of terror, then of recognition, "Roger, Hodge Fitter! how didst come
here?"

For a weary, worn-out trooper, with stained buff coat, and heavy boots,
stood panting among them. "I thought 'twas our folks," he said. "Be
mother here?"

"Hodge! My Hodge! Be'st hurt, my lad?" cried the mother, bursting
through the midst and throwing herself on him, while his father
contented himself with a sort of grunt. "All right, Hodge. How com'st
here?"

"And where's my Jack?" exclaimed Goody Bent.

"And where's our Harry?" was another cry from Widow Lakin.

While Stead longed to ask, but could not be heard in the clamour,
whether his brother had been there.

Ho