He turned away. Another furtive glance through the window showed him the dragoons had turned to industrious trenchermen and he skirted the wall of the house until he saw a crack of light coming through a rear door. He tried it gently and found it gave way. At that point he stopped to affix his bayonet, then shoved the door open and let out a cry loud enough to startle every echo in the countryside. The door slammed against the inner wall and Jukes, musket advanced, careened through a hot kitchen, had a momentary glimpse of a frightened woman shrinking back, and arrived at the front room. He cried again--a high, wailing, half savage yell--and burst upon them at the moment the squire, obeying instructions to the letter, burst through the front way, waving his pistols. “Surrender, gentlemen, or you die!” The table went over, sending the dishes to the floor with a crash and clatter. Dragoons flung themselves against the wall, sabers flashing, pistols out. “Charge ’em!” yelled the sergeant. “Kill the devils!” Jukes’ musket roared; smoke filled the room and the sergeant’s face sagged. He fell to the floor, knocking aside the weapon of one of his men. “Come on, Pennsylvania!” shouted Jukes, his face afire. He was as a man gone stark mad, teeth bared and eyes flashing. The bayonet met a saber and knocked it aside. The room shook with gunshots and he felt the powder burn his cheeks. Through the sudden sweat that dripped over his eyes he saw his bayonet point turn to bright red. The squire’s hoarse voice cried encouragement and summoned aid from the night. His pistols spoke and then he was borne out of sight by a dragoon retreating from the wild man with the face of fury who slashed and struck and parried and lunged with a crimson bayonet. The room was in semi-darkness, swimming with smoke; the fireplace glowed dully, reflecting on the sergeant’s sightless eyes. The squire, from the outer shadows, sent back a great cry: “Keep at ’em, my boy! You’ve bagged the birds!” “Swords down!” shouted a disheveled dragoon, sagging at the knee. “We’re taken. Put up your gun, man!” There were two of them standing against the wall, one with a streak of blood across his face, the other staring sullenly. “Gad,” said he, “we’ve been taken by a cursed savage! Quarter!” Jukes swayed in his tracks, black hair fallen about his face, sweat rolling across his whiskers. At some point in the mêlée the cloth of one sleeve had been ripped by a saber and it hung away from his skinny arm, making him all the more a nondescript figure. The flaming fervor slowly faded from his eyes and he dropped the point of his bayonet, suddenly tired. They had done well enough. The sergeant and two others were dead on the floor; two were prisoners and one had fled. The tavern keeper thrust his white jowls out of the kitchen door and Jukes barked at him-- “What’s your politics, fat-face?” “I’m a good patriot. Ye ----, y’ve wrecked my place!”