How I got there I cannot tell, but I was in the hall, my clothing a mass of rags, my body aching from head to foot, and still struggling. About me were men, my own men--pressed together back to back, meeting as best they could the tide pouring against them from two sides. Remorselessly they hurled us back, those behind pushing the front ranks into us. We fought with fingers, fists, clubbed revolvers, paving the floor with bodies, yet inch by inch were compelled to give way, our little circle narrowing, and wedged tighter against the wall. Mahoney had made the stairs, and fought there like a demon until some one shot him down. I saw three men lift the great log which had barricaded the door, and hurl it crashing against the gray mass. But nothing could stop them. I felt within me the strength of ten men; the carbine stock shattered, I swung the iron barrel, striking until it bent in my hands. I was dazed by a blow in the face, blood trickled into my eyes where a bullet had grazed my forehead, one shoulder smarted as though burned by fire, yet it never occurred to me to cease fighting. Again and again the men rallied to my call, devils incarnate now, only to have their formation shattered by numbers. We went back, back, inch by inch, slipping in blood, falling over our own dead, until we were pinned against the wall. How many were on their feet then I shall never know, but I was in the narrow passage beside the stairs alone. Out of the clangor and confusion, the yells and oaths, there came a memory of Billie. My God! I had forgotten! and she was there, crouching in the blackness, not five feet away. The thought gave me the reckless strength of insanity. My feet were upon a rubbish heap of plaster, where a shell had shaken the ceiling to the floor. It gave me vantage, a height from which to strike. Never again will I fight as I did then. Twice they came, and I beat them back, the iron club sweeping a death circle. Somewhere out from the murk two men joined me, one with barking revolver, the other with gleam of steel; together we blocked the passage. Some one on the stairs above reached over, striking with his gun, and the man at my right went down. I caught a glimpse of the other's face--it was Miles. Then, behind us, about us, rose a cheer; something sent me reeling over against the wall, striking it with my head, and I lost consciousness.