"I'm in charge o' this lot, sir. You're owre braw a fechter tae get kill't."
"Nonsense, sergeant."
"Nae nonsense aboot it, sir. Staund there," kindly insisted the old non-com., who saw that Longlegs would soon faint from loss of blood. Meantime the din inside the room was deafening. Squeals, groans, and curses rent the air. It was a battle to the death. The officer fought like a Trojan for his life, but, in the end, he was bayoneted to death. Half of the enemy were killed, the other half surrendered or jumped through the windows, smashing their legs on the hard stones below.
"We've won, sir," reported the sergeant, rushing out of the shambles to where the pale-faced officer was standing at the top of the stair.
"Good!" said the subaltern, tumbling in [pg 243] a heap from loss of blood. At that moment a thundering cheer was heard outside the house. It was the colonel and the other half of the battalion, who had been sent up in support. The job, however, had been well done. Old Corkleg was met at the door by the faithful sergeant.
"We've done it, sir," said he, saluting.
"Yes," said the colonel gravely, as he looked at his dead and wounded men. Then looking up, he remarked, "Where is Major Tartan?"
"Killed, sir."
"And Captain Hardup?"
"Inside, sir, badly wounded."