The room, but for the firing, was absolutely silent and without movement. Here was a case where discretion was decidedly the better part of valour.
By this time, the other barrack-rooms had been roused and the guard had turned out. Through the thunderclaps raised by the Marquis their anxious calls could be heard. A crowd appeared at a window and someone cried "I'll bet it's the Marquis!"
"You're damn-hic-jolly well right!" said the Marquis, scattering the crowd with a shot through the open window.
The guard, arriving outside the door, held a consultation. Meanwhile, to keep his grip on things, the Marquis sent shots regularly through the door. Presently the sergeant of the guard bellowed:
"Best drop it, Marquis, an' come quiet!"
"Come an' get me!" laughed the Marquis.
The sergeant of the guard discreetly withdrew to consider the situation.
The room was now full of smoke, the floor strewn with empty shells. In the midst sat the Marquis, one broad grin, blazing like a fire-ship and muttering:
"Jolly rag, eh what? Cheery soul, eh what?"
Arrived the Sergeant-Major, who was given to understand that the Marquis, surrounded by a heap of slain, was shooting up the barrack-room with a Catling gun.