The mob hesitated for an instant, but only for an instant, for those below pushed forward those who were above. A hundred revolvers were fired at the Pinkerton men, half of whom fell, and the other half were borne down, shot, clubbed, and stabbed as the mob rushed past and over them, and gained the first landing. The crowd continued to push from below, and in the same way, with great loss of life on each side, they gained successively the third and fourth stories. By this time, however, the forces on the fifth floor had opened fire on the mob outside. Two riflemen at each of the eighteen windows commanded the main entrance to the building, and such a rapid and accurate fire was maintained that Market Street for a hundred feet on each side of the entrance was piled with bodies, and further re-inforcements prevented from reaching those within the building. At this juncture Battery X came galloping into Market Street from Fourth. Two guns were placed in position, and one, loaded with grapeshot, was fired just above the heads of the crowd. The whistling of the shot in the air above them gave notice to the mob of what was coming, and, with cries of terror, they fled, panic-stricken, into the adjacent streets. The assailants inside the building, hearing the noise of the cannon, followed by the triumphant shouts of the Pinkerton men in the upper story, and finding no further pressure or re-inforcements from below, desisted from further assault, and, turning from the fourth landing, fled down the stairs. Lorin French, from a loophole in an iron shutter, watched the firing, and the dispersion of the mob outside, and in a few minutes he was informed by a Pinkerton sergeant that the contest was over. “It’s a sorry day’s work, sir,” said the officer; “we have lost over thirty of our best men, and there must be two hundred rioters dead and wounded on the stairs and in the halls, beside those killed in the street.” “I will help you with the wounded,” said French, starting for the passage. “Better remain here, sir,” said the officer. “It may not be quite safe for you yet in the lower halls.” “Nonsense,” replied French, “the fight is over,” and so saying, he walked out into the hall, and descended the stairs to the fourth story. He paused in horror at the sight which met his eyes. The floor was wet and slippery with blood, and the cries of the wounded pierced his ears. He stood for a moment as if dazed, and then, turning his back upon the scene, prepared to ascend the staircase and gain his room. And as he turned, a man who was sitting propped up against the wall twenty feet away, raised a revolver which had been lying in his lap, and, clearing with his left hand the blood which obscured his eyes, took rapid yet careful aim and fired. The bullet struck Lorin French in his backbone, which it shattered, and, with a cry of agony and fear, the owner of $20,000,000 fell forward upon his face on the stairway.