At the moment of his asking, it was. One half a second later, it wasn’t, as the last of the legation’s stubborn bars yielded, the door burst open, and the four Americans tumbled out at the charge, Cluff yelling insanely, Carroll in deadly quiet, Sherwen alertly scanning the adversaries for identifiable faces, and Elder Brewster still imperiling his soul by the fervor of his language. Each was armed with such casual weapons as he had been able to catch up. Carroll, a leap in advance of the rest, encountered an Indian drover, half-dodged a swinging blow from his whip, and sent him down with a broken shoulder from a chop with a baseball club that he had found in the hallway. A bull-like charge had carried Cluff deep among the Caracuñans, where he encountered a huge peon, whom he seized and flung bodily over the iron guard of a _samon_ tree, where the man hung, yelling dismally. Two other peons, who had seized the athlete around the knees, were all but brained by a stoneware gin bottle in the hands of Sherwen. Meanwhile, Mr. Brewster was performing prodigies with a niblick which he had extracted, at full run, from a bag opportunely resting against the hat-rack. Almost before they knew it, the rescue party had broken the intercepting wing of the mob, and had joined the others. Cluff threw a gorilla-like arm across the Unspeakable Perk’s shoulder, “Hurt, boy?” he cried anxiously. “No, I’m all right. Who’s left with Miss Brewster?” “Nobody. We must get back.” Sherwen’s cool voice cut in:— “Close together, now. Keep well up. Herr von Plaanden, will you cover us at the end?” “It is the post of honor,” said the Hochwaldian. “You’ve earned it. But for you, they’d have got our colors.” The foreigner bowed, and swung his horse toward a Caracuñan who had pressed forward a little too near. But, for the moment the fight had oozed out of the mob. Without mishap the group got across the street, Perkins still clinging to the flag. Suddenly, from the rear rank, came a shower of stones, followed by the final rush. Galpy and Perkins went down. Von Plaanden tottered in his saddle, but quickly recovered. Instantly Perkins was up again, the blood streaming from the side of his head. He was conscious of brown hands clutching at the cricketer, to drag him away. He himself seized the cockney’s legs and braced for that absurd and deadly tug of war. Then Von Plaanden’s saber descended, and he was able to haul Galpy back into safety.