Up and down the stony hill-sides chased, and were chased, the Greeks. Now and then a party of Albanians would try to form in some sort of order to make a combined assault on the broken-down gate, and as often they were scattered again by knots of men who rushed wildly upon them from all sides. In point of numbers, the Albanians had had the advantage at the first attack, but that short-range fire from the walls had been of a decimating nature, and now the Greeks had the superiority. Mitsos, who had gone out with Nicholas, found himself almost swept off his feet by the rush of his own countrymen from the gate, and for a few moments he was carried along helpless, neither striking nor being able to strike, but with a curious red happiness in his heart, singing the "Song of the Vine-diggers," though he knew not he was singing it. Then suddenly at his elbow appeared a glaring, fierce face, as crimson as sunset, and he found himself jammed shoulder to shoulder with Yanni, who was swearing as hard as he could lay tongue to it, not that he was angry, but because the madness of fighting was on him, and it happened to take him that way. "Don't shout, you big pig," called he to Mitsos; "why, in the name of all the devils in the pit, don't you get out of my way?" "Fat old Yanni!" shouted Mitsos. "Come on, little cousin. "'Dig we deep among the vines.' Eh, but there are fine grapes for the gathering!" "Go to hell!" screamed Yanni. "Hullo, Mitsos, this is better." They had squeezed themselves out into a backwater of the congested stream of men, and in full front stood a great hairy Albanian with his sword just raised to strike. But Mitsos, flying at him like a wild-cat, threw in the man's face the hand which grasped his short, dagger-like sword as you would throw a stone; the uplifted sword swung over his back harmlessly, while the blade of his own dagger made a great red rent in the man's face, and he fell back. "Your mother won't know you now," sang out Mitsos, burying his knife in his throat. "'Dig we deep'--that's deep enough, Yanni--'the summer's here.'" There was little work for muskets, for no man had time or room to load, and Yanni went on his blasphemous way swinging his by the barrel, and dealing blows right and left with the butt, and in a few minutes he and Mitsos found themselves out of the crowd alone but for a dead Greek lying there, on a little hillock some fifty yards from the gate, while the fight flickered up and down on each side of them. "Eh, but there's little breath left in this carcass," panted Yanni. "Why, Mitsos, your head's all covered with blood; there's a slice out of your forehead." [Illustration: "MITSOS, FLYING AT HIM LIKE A WILD-CAT"]