But the mob, withered by the volley, hesitated a moment. The vestibule
was streaming with blood, and shrieking, writhing victims strove
in vain to rise. It was a sickening sight, but there was the
electricity of anger in the air and no one faltered long. On they
came again with undiminished fury.

But again the rush was checked. Sharp and vengeful rang out the
close reports of the American revolver, and at each echo a man fell.
Less noisy, less terrific, but far more deadly, the six-shooter
took up the work where the breech-loaders had left it; and Harold,
covering with his body the girl he loved, fired as steadily as if
practising in a pistol gallery, and made every shot tell.

He had not used his weapon in the first rush; somewhere or other,
young Hayes had heard of the advantages of platoon firing.

The lights had been extinguished and day was just breaking. Firing
from the obscurity into the growing light, the garrison had the
best of the position; but there were firearms among the assailants
too, and the balls whistled through the long hall and buried
themselves in the panelling.

But this could not last. Much as they had suffered in the assault,
the assailants were too numerous to be longer held at bay. With a
feeling of despair, Harold recognised the futile click that followed
his pressure on the trigger and told him that he had fired his last
cartridge.

With a wild yell the assailants rushed forward. Not a shot met
them; nothing stood between them and their vengeance but four pale,