Jim, elbow to elbow with Jack, and yelling with excitement, felt him suddenly trip and fall. He stooped to help him up again. But Jack lay still.
He straddled across him to keep him from being trampled on, and men lunged into him and tumbled over Jack, and he hurled them aside. Hand-to-hand fights were going on all round, and the place was full of the clash of steel on steel and pantings and groanings and hearty British curses.
But they were outnumbered twenty to one, and the last dozen were borne to the ground by sheer weight of Russians on their backs. The Ovens changed tenants and were occupied in force, and their late occupants were dragged away down the sloping valley towards the Harbour.
Jim found himself the centre of a raging mob. He had snatched up a rifle, and, swinging it by the muzzle, kept a rough circle clear of Jack's body. But vicious bayonets were jabbing at him all round, and a bullet went singing past his head.
"Cowards Murderers! Do you call this fighting fair?" he shouted savagely.
And of a sudden the mob parted, and an officer was belabouring his men with the flat of his sword and strong words.
"Vous vous rendez?" he cried to Jim.
"Suppose I must," he growled.
"All right!" said the Russian. "Go there! Allez!" and pushed him towards the gorge.
Jim stooped and endeavoured to lift Jack.