He found the men all gathered in one room. It was a strange looking group which the flashes of the rifles revealed in the smoky air, half dressed, kneeling by the shutters, shooting viciously out into the darkness, at the blurred things in the ditches. A bullet whistled by Stephen’s ear as he entered the room, and with a dull spat buried itself in the plaster behind him. “Easy on the cartridges, boys!” he called. “They may rush again.” His advice was well called for, as in their excitement the men were firing wildly. “It is lucky that there are no windows in the back of the house,” he exclaimed to Señor Hernandez. The latter was engaged in trying to make himself an inconspicuous target. There was the sound of footsteps at the door of the room and a blinding glare of light, as Pepita entered, carrying a large lamp. Stephen snatched it from her and hurled it out the window through the splintered panes. But its work had been done. One of the men by the window sobbed, staggered to his feet, and leaned out into the night, shaking his fist towards the ditches. Then he fell face downward across the ledge, where for an instant he was silhouetted by the last flicker of the lamp below. Loring flung himself upon him and dragged him back into the room, but not before the body was riddled with bullets. Stephen felt the sting of several as they grazed his clothes, by some miracle leaving him unhurt. “_Dios!_” gasped the woman. “Lie down!” shouted Loring, forcing her to the floor. Then he took the dead man’s place by the shutter, and began to fire methodically. Encouraged by their success, the Yaquis again swarmed forward. The whiplike crack of five Winchesters checked them before they were within the courtyard. The black of the night began to turn to gray-blue with the hint of dawn. The figures in the ditches stirred, and as they began to run for their ponies, the defenders fired into them with telling effect. Then, in contrast to the previous rattle of shots, came the sound of the hoofs of a hundred ponies, scampering back up the trail. “All over!” called out Stephen. Rising from his knees, he leaned out of the casement, and sent one more shot towards the flying Yaquis. It brought no response. They carried Haskins, the man who had been shot, into the next room, and laid him on the bed. He was quite dead. The Señora followed, sobbing. Wildly she turned to Stephen as he tried to comfort her. “You, Señor—you do not know what it is to kill, by madness, by folly.” “Not know?—I—not know?” Stephen smiled a smile that was not good to see, as he broke off.