"Yes," I managed to answer, feeling strength enough to lift myself, and vaguely noticing his features. "Is that you, Farrell?" "It certainly is," cheerfully. "Duval has his arm about you, and the Camden boys are herding those devils down below. You had some fracas from the way things look. How many men had you?" I rubbed my head, endeavoring to recollect, staring down into the hall. It was filled with dead and wounded men, and at the foot of the stairs was a pile of bodies. "Twelve, altogether," I replied finally. "They--they were too many for us." "Three to one, or more, I should judge. We got here just in time." I was up now, looking into their faces, slowly grasping the situation. "Yes," I said, feeling the necessity of knowing. "How did it happen? What brought you? Washington--" "All natural enough. Clinton got away night before last with what was left of his army. Left fires burning, and made a forced march to the ships at Sandy Hook. Left everything to save his troops. Washington, realizing the uselessness of holding them longer, sent most of his militia home. About six miles out there on the pike road a half-crazy preacher named Jenks came up with us. He was too badly frightened to tell a straight story, but we got out of him that there was a fight on here, and came over as fast as our horses would travel." His eyes swept the hall. "Five minutes later would have been too late." The name of Jenks recalled everything to my mind instantly. In spite of Duval I gripped the broken rail and gained my feet, swaying slightly but able to stand. My hand still grasped the twisted rifle barrel, which I used as a cane. "But Farrell, the girl! Do you know anything about the girl?" "What girl? Do you mean Claire Mortimer? Is she here?" "Yes, her father is lying helplessly wounded up stairs, and she must be with him. Eric is somewhere in the hall, either dead or wounded. I saw him fall just as we retreated to the stairs." Farrell leaned over and called to some one below. "Not yet, sir," was the answer. "Well, hunt for him. Now, we'll go up and find Claire. Major, can you climb the rest of the stairs? Help him, Duval." I experienced no great difficulty, my strength coming back rapidly. There was a wounded Dragoon leaning against the wall, and half-way down the hall lay another body, face down. Without doubt this was the guard Fagin had stationed there. Duval paused to help the wounded man, but Farrell and I moved on across the dead guard to the open door beyond. Colonel Mortimer, unable to move, was propped up on his pillow, one hand grasping a pistol. With shaking arm he levelled it at us. "Who are you? Quick, now!" he quavered. "I've shot one, and I'm good for more." "You know me, Colonel," and Farrell stepped inside. "I am 'Bull' Farrell; this is Major Lawrence." He looked at us with dull eyes, his hand falling weakly. "Farrell--Farrell--surely, the blacksmith. What Lawrence? The--the officer Claire knows?"