"Go away!" he said, "you mustn't come here.... I'll get them yet--I tell you I'll get them yet--I tell you I'll get them--Let them dare... Chiens... Chiens..." He jerked his rifle away from the window and began, with trembling fingers, to load it again. Lawrence gripped his arm. "When I did that," he said, "it felt as though there wasn't an arm there at all, but just a bone which I could break if I pressed a bit harder." "Come away!" he said. "You damn fool--don't you see that it's hopeless?" "And I'd always been so respectful to him...." he added in parenthesis. Wilderling hissed at him, saying no words, just drawing in his breath. "I've got two of them," he whispered suddenly. "I'll get them all." Then a bullet crashed through the window, burying itself in the opposite wall. After that things happened so quickly that it was impossible to say in what order they occurred. There was suddenly a tremendous noise in the flat. "It was just as though the whole place was going to tumble about our ears. All the pots and bottles began to jump about, and then another bullet came through, landed on the dressing-table, and smashed everything. The looking-glass crashed, and the hair-oil was all over the place. I rushed out to see what was happening in the hall...." What "was happening" was that the soldiers had broken the hall door in. Lawrence saw then a horrible thing. One of the men rushed forward and stuck Andre, who was standing, paralysed, by the drawing-room door, in the stomach. The old man cried out "just like a shot rabbit," and stood there "for what seemed ages," with the blood pouring out of his middle. That finished Lawrence. He rushed forward, and they would certainly have "stuck" him too if someone hadn't cried out, "Look out, he's an Englishman--an _Anglichanin_--I know him." After that, for a time, he was uncertain of anything. He struggled; he was held. He heard noises around him--shouts or murmurs or sighs--that didn't seem to him to be connected with anything human. He could not have said where he was nor what he was doing. Then, quite suddenly, everything cleared. He came to himself with a consciousness of that utter weariness that he had felt before. He was able to visualise the scene, to take it all in, but as a distant spectator. "It was like nothing so much as watching a cinematograph," he told me. He could do nothing; he was held by three soldiers, who apparently wished him to be a witness of the whole affair. Andre's body lay there, huddled up in a pool of drying blood, that glistened under the electric light. One of his legs was bent crookedly under him, and Lawrence had a strange mad impulse to thrust his way forward and put it straight. It was then, with a horrible sickly feeling, exactly like a blow in the stomach, that he realised that the Baroness was there. She was standing, quite alone, at the entrance of the hall, looking at the soldiers, who were about eight in number.