Through the débris we were hurled, swept round the corner to the left, and dropped, panting and bruised and battered, in the Place of St. Stephen.
CHAPTER II.
A SOLDIER OF THE RIGHT SORT.
I stood for several minutes between the palace and the great church trying to draw some breath into my lungs, for the pressure of the crowd had left me like a squeezed lemon.
To search for the missing Rakoczy was useless labour, but it might be possible to return to the narrow street where I had last seen my brother.
I soon discovered, however, that the short delay had put that also out of the question. The people were pouring into the Place; and, though the terrible stress had been lessened, I was still a prisoner, blocked in on all sides by the tumultuous throng.
The huge bell in the tower of St. Stephen's clanged out its brazen peals of warning and menace, and a sharp musketry fire told me that fierce fighting was going on in the very shadow of the sacred edifice.
A handful of loyal National Guards, faithful to their oaths, and led by a brave commander, were, like good men and true, sacrificing their lives in the performance of duty.
Of course, the contest was a hopeless one; but the men stood their ground bravely, and I guessed from the savage cries of the rioters that the faithful few were selling their lives dearly.
From where I stood nothing could be seen save the heads of the populace; but the surging of the crowd backward and forward showed how the fight progressed.