With a yell of rage, those crushed against the wall hurtled forward, driving the others; men were lifted and hurled at us; others gripped at our feet; by sheer force of numbers they swept us backward. It was hand to hand, neither side having time to reload their weapons. The smoke rose, permitting a view of the shambles. There was a tangle of arms, a jumble of faces. They were maddened beasts, desperate, revengeful. Hands clutched at us, gun butts were thrust into our faces, the crush too dense to permit of their being swung overhead. My Dragoons had their sabres out, and stood to it like men, the steel blades dripping as they tasted blood. But killing one only brought a new man to the front. One does not see so much as feel in such a jumble. Yet I knew we were worsted, outnumbered. They came at us like a battering ram. I saw the sergeant shot through the forehead; I saw Eric go down beneath a crushing stroke, and roll under my feet. I stepped on bodies, fighting for my own life as I never fought before. Somewhere I had gripped a gun out of dead fingers, and swung it savagely, smashing the stock at the first blow, but retaining the twisted iron. The intensity of excitement seemed to clear my brain. I began to distinguish voices, to notice faces. I heard Grant yell safely in the rear; I heard Jones's roar, "To hell with 'em! To hell with 'em!" Out of the murk of struggling figures I made out his black beard, the gleam of yellow fangs, and leaped toward him, striking men down until I was able to swing at his head. He went over like a stricken ox under a butcher's axe, knocking aside two men as he fell. It gave me chance to spring back out of the _melee_. "To the stairs, men! The stairs!" I cried. "We can hold them there!" I cannot describe now how we made it, but we did. I only know Tom and I held the rear, sweeping circles of death with our whirling gun-barrels, falling back step by step as we fought. At last I felt the bottom stairs with my foot, and heard a voice shout, "Come up, sir! We'll hold 'em now!" Then I was above the heads of the mob, gripping the rail, and sobbing for breath. There followed a moment's wait, an instant of hesitancy. I began to see and feel once more. Below us the hall was jammed with men, so closely pressed together as to be almost helpless. Blood streamed from a cut in my forehead, nearly blinding me, but I wiped it away, and took one glance at their angry upturned faces, and gained a glimpse of my own men. There were but six of us, and one of these lay helpless propped against the wall. Tom and I stood alone, his face blackened by powder, his shirt ripped into rags; the other three were above, pistols in hand. "Are they loaded?" I gasped. "Yes, sir." "Stand ready then, but look out for above; there was a guard up there--Tom." He turned his face slightly. "Move back a step or two more; we've got to hold them." "All right, sir."