“Good God, Wayne! Do you think I am likely to forget, with Celia Minor among them?” he exclaimed indignantly. “Nothing but a strict sense of duty holds me one moment where I am. Heaven knows I wish to be with her, and, by thunder, Brennan is aware of it.” “Then come with me,” I cried. “There are times when a higher law than that of military despotism should control our actions. I am going there, orders or no orders. Ebers can command your detachment and accomplish all the service you possibly could. Your rightful place is between these ruffians and the woman you love. How many additional men will be required to make the back of the house secure?” His face brightened as I was speaking, and the haggard look vanished from his eyes. “I feel like a new man, Wayne,” he said thankfully, “and I know you are right. Four more would be sufficient, besides the one in command. The wainscoting is high and of solid oak, the windows are small, there is no porch, while the guns have a perfectly clear range for nearly a hundred yards.” “Good! Ebers,” I said, as my portly Sergeant again emerged from out the darkness, “take your four men back to the kitchen and assume command. The guerillas are preparing to make a rush there, and you must drive them back by rapid fire. Hurry along now.” “By Chiminy, but I vos glad to git in der kitchen, anyhow. Is der anyting cold to put in der stomach in dot bantry?” he asked anxiously. “You will have something exceedingly hot in your stomach unless you move more lively,” I said sternly. The little group had barely vanished beyond the glow of the light when from without our ears were suddenly assailed by a wild, exulting yell that bespoke the charge. “There they are!” I cried. “Now, lads, come with me!” The dull, gray, chilling dawn revealed a room in utmost disorder, the windows shattered, the blinds cut and splintered, the walls scarred with bullets and disfigured with stains of blood, the furniture overturned and broken. A dead soldier in gray uniform lay in the centre of the floor, his life-blood a dark stain upon the rich carpet; a man with coat off, and blue shirt ripped wide open, was leaning against the further wall vainly endeavoring to stanch a wound in his chest. Brennan was upon one knee near the central window, a smoking gun in his hand, a red welt showing ghastly across his cheek. All this I saw in a single glance, and then, with the leap of a panther, I was beside him, gazing out into the morning mist, and firing as fast as I could handle my gun. Through the shifting smoke clouds we could see them advancing on a run,--an ugly, motley line, part blue, part gray, part everything,--yelling as they swept forward like a pack of infuriated wolves, their fierce faces scowling savagely behind the rifles. It was half war, half riot--the reckless onslaught of outcasts bent on plunder, inspired by lust, yet guided by rude discipline.