"Hold your cursed tongue, Clifford!" whispered Thaxton. "Do you
want to be torn to pieces?"

Suddenly a man behind Gethryn sprang at his back, and then, amazed and
terrified at his own daring, yelled lustily for help. Gethryn shook
him off as he would a fly, but the last remnant of self-control went
at the same time, and, wheeling, he planted a blow square in the
fellow's neck. The man fell like an ox. In an instant the mob was upon
them. Thaxton received a heavy kick in the ribs, which sent him
reeling against Carleton. Clifford knocked two men down in as many
blows, and, springing back, stood guard over Thaxton until he could
struggle to his feet again. Elliott got a sounding thwack on the nose,
which he neatly returned, adding one on the eye for interest. Gethryn
and Carleton fought back to back. Rhodes began by half strangling a
son of the Commune and then flung him bodily among his howling
compatriots.

"Good Heavens," gasped Rhodes, "we can't keep this up!" And
raising his voice, he cried with all the force of his lungs, "Help!
This way, police!" A shot answered him, and a man, clapping his hands
to his face, tilted heavily forward, the blood spurting between his
fingers.

Then a terrible cry arose, a din in which the Americans caught the
clanging of steel and the neighing of horses. A man was hurled
violently against Gethryn, who, losing in turn his balance, staggered
and fell. Rising to his knees, he saw a great foam-covered horse
rearing almost over him, and a red-faced rider in steel helmet and
tossing plume slashing furiously among the crowd. Next moment he was
dragged to his feet and back into the flying mob.