From out of the smoke and flames, the maddened desperadoes chorussed this dirge.
"Open the gates, open the gates," they cried ceaselessly and imperatively.
Wang the Ninth crept to the parapet, and thrusting his head through an embrasure gazed out.
Lit up by the flames, great dark patches of men could be seen standing there gesticulating and shouting madly to the accompaniment of the crackling flames. Sometimes as the rafters of some burning emporium fell in, an enormous cloud of sparks was wafted into the air and fell about them, sending up glints from their swords and spears which they shook and waved.
"Open the gates; open the gates."
So it went on for very long. The master's voice, sounding at his very elbow, brought him out of his absorption.
"Well—what do you think of it?"
"They are dogs," said the boy contemptuously. "It is best to shoot them all—Dogs," he cried in his shrill voice, displacing a small piece of brick and hurling it down.
His master shook his head.
"There is no one to deal with them, no one to shoot."