On the right side of the archway was an open door leading into a house; here a small party sought for shelter. It consisted of Dr. Home, Captain Becher, of the 40th Native Infantry, Swanson, of the 78th Highlanders, nine soldiers as yet unhurt, and three wounded men. This small party of fifteen persons were hemmed in on every side by the enemy; their only chance of safety lay in holding out till assistance reached them from the Residency. It was now about ten o’clock in the morning; they might not have long to wait. They screened themselves as much as they could from the fire of the rebels, who crowded round the door and might have forced their way in had it not been for the gallant conduct of Private Patrick McManus, of the 5th Fusiliers. This heroic Irishman stood in the gateway as their guardian angel; ensconcing himself behind a pillar near the door, he kept up a steady fire on the enemy for half an hour, and thus prevented them from effecting an entrance. His hand was so steady, his aim so certain, that whenever he raised his piece the cowardly Sepoys fled from their loopholes or prostrated themselves on the ground. There stood McManus, a hero in the strife, keeping the whole multitude of the mutineers at bay. He had not even to fire; he had only to show his rifle, when all the cowardly wretches trembled before him—such was the influence exercised over them by the bearing of one undaunted man. The house at the gateway became the central point of attack; the mutineers assembled there from all quarters, and yelled like beasts of prey thirsting for human blood. As in the Homeric battles, the combatants were so close that they could revile one another. Sometimes the assailants would advance within twenty yards of the house. “The Feringees are cowards,” they would say; “why do they not come into the street?”—an unreasonable question, considering that the Feringees were only fifteen in number and the enemy more than a thousand. On this the redoubted McManus would show his rifle, when the cowards became silent through abject fear. Ah, Patrick McManus, my boy, if the mother that bare you had seen you that day, her old heart would have been proud of you! The leader of the mutineers abused them for their cowardice. “Come on!” he would say; “what are you afraid of? There are only three Feringees.” On hearing this the gallant little party, wounded and all, would give a loud shout to make the enemy believe that they were more numerous than they really were, and Patrick McManus would peep out from behind his pillar. They also strengthened their position by barricading the door with lumber and with sandbags, to form which they stripped the dead Sepoys of their “cummerbunds,” or waistcloths. The mass of dead bodies which had accumulated round the door served as a barrier to prevent the mutineers from entering. On finding that they could not force the house they directed their fire against the wounded in the doolies, and killed about forty of them.