“Stop here quietly,” I whispered, “I’ll come back for you both!” and with that I jumped down into the water again and waded over to where the Chief was already gathering his men. For here in the banqueting room the battle was over and we had conquered. “Hurry up, Clayton,” cried the Chief. “We’re waiting for you.” The firing in the main hall had died out also, and now the place was almost silent, except for the frightened sobbing of some of the girls on the barge and the moaning of our own wounded. No quarter had been asked or given on either side, but we had been able to rescue some of our own men and bind up their wounds. Some one had found the switch and the lights in the main hall were on full. The place was a shambles. Dead men, in queer, contorted attitudes, their faces pale, sunken and ghastly in the bright light, lay scattered about the walls. The walls themselves were seamed with bright slashes from flying bullets and the naked nymphs still simpered down on us, though their bodies were tattered and torn. The hardwood floor was a welter of blood in streaks and half-congealed pools. The room was not a pretty sight. We had lost over half our number, a hasty count showing eleven men killed or badly wounded. Most of the others had flesh wounds, although the Chief and I had escaped scot-free. But we had certainly accounted for a much greater number of our enemies. At all events they seemed to have had enough, for the present at any rate. After we had taken stock of our losses, the Chief stepped forward and faced the eight or nine of us left. “You, Johnson, and you,” he said, “stay here and keep an eye on those girls. Keep the men on the boat where they are. We’ll want them later. The rest of you scatter and clean the place up. Break down the doors and explore the whole house. Let the others in too, as soon as you can find the way out. They must be just outside by now. If you hear me whistle, come back here on the run. But if you can find the head of the gang, take him alive. I want that man.” He turned to me. “Come on, Clayton. Let’s round up that Emperor of theirs. You all right?” “Not a scratch, sir.” He came closer, putting his hand on my shoulder for an instant. “You did the only thing, lad, I saw it all. Don’t look so down in the mouth about it. Any one would have done the same. Come on, let’s go!” and that was the only time the Chief and I discussed the death of Mrs. Fawcette. The others had scattered in all directions, and in a moment the place was a bedlam with the crash of blows and the crack of splintering wood, as the men set themselves to break open locked doors. One man found a staircase leading up from a small door in the main hall, and started up into the darkness to explore the floor above. But the Chief and I made for the corridor that led to the room of the voices, kicking or jemmying open the doors we passed, and making as sure as we could that we left no enemies behind us to take us in the rear.