It seemed likely that, during the struggle in the guardroom, the rest of the guard, being unable to reach the arms racks, had stealthily left the building. So Myles and his party hurried on to the door which led from the building into the arsenal yard. As they emerged they were met with a volley from the arsenal, and three of their number went down. The rest beat a hasty retreat and barred the door. Then they made their way to the windows which faced the main arsenal, but two more of them were picked off before they realized how perfectly they were silhouetted by the lighted rooms within. One of these two was Buh Tedn. Myles Cabot and one Cupian sharpshooter were all that were left of the party. As rapidly as possible the two survivors extinguished all the lights in the guardhouse, and then mounted to the roof, which was flat and surrounded by a low parapet which protected them from showing themselves against the illumination of the surrounding vapor lamps. Crawling along the roof to the edge nearest the arsenal, they peered cautiously over. The whistle of a bullet caused Myles to duck his head, and he pulled his companion to cover as well. With his artificial antennae gone, he could not explain orally and it was too dark to write. But the other followed him to the opposite edge, where they succeeded in potting the sentinels at Posts Two and Three, which were the only occupied posts within sight. There appearing to be nothing further to be accomplished up there, they crawled down into the building and took up their station at windows of the upper story, from which they fired at every sign of movement in the direction of the arsenal, taking care to drop to the floor and then change windows after each shot. Finally their ammunition gave out, and Cabot went down to the guardroom for more. But a long and careful search revealed only a few rounds. Myles returned to the upper story and groped through the rooms to find his friend. But it was his foot, rather than his out-stretched hand, which finally found him. The Cupian sharpshooter lay dead. Myles Cabot alone, with only about a dozen cartridges, was the sole remaining defense of the captured building. No life seemed to be stirring on the arsenal side, so he crossed the building and looked out at the wall. Dark figures were stealthily creeping along where Post No. 12 should have been. The earth-man let them have it with rapid fire, and they quickly disappeared. He now heard firing in that direction, and then the lights there went out, so that the wall no longer showed against the sky. From time to time he fired where he judged the wall was, so as to keep back the invaders, and thus soon entirely exhausted his ammunition. “Thank heaven,” he said to himself, “the downstairs door is barred!”