The glass of the two small windows above the doorway—whence, as I learned later, the defenders had delivered the intermittent fusilade that had hitherto kept the mob at bay—was smashed, and the space filled in with hastily fixed barricades. The great door was also doubtless strongly barricaded, since it still withstood an assault with axes and hammers that was in progress.
“They shoot no more; they have no more bullets,” shrieked a virago in the crowd. “Burn them out, the filthy zhits.”
Others took up the cry.
“Burn them out; what folly to batter the door! Bring straw and wood; burn them out!”
“Keep away,—work round to the left; there will be space soon,” growled Mishka, clutching me back, as I began to force my way forward. “Do as I say,” he added authoritatively.
I guessed he knew best, so I obeyed, and edged round on the outside of the crowd.
Something whizzed through the air, and fell bang among the crowd, exploding with a deafening report.
A babel of yells arose,—yells of terror now; and the mob surged back, leaving a clear space in which several stricken figures were writhing,—and one lay still.
“Fly!” shouted a stentorian voice. “They are making bombs and throwing them; fly for your lives. Why should we all perish?”