by, and in the hot Imperialist fire they settled to
their work.

"By cracken, lambaste 'em! Why in all hell _don't_ ye lambaste
'em?"

This fury boiled through oaths, unable to spend itself in blows. The
tigerish rage seized on them every one. Teeth grated vengefully as men
struck.

"Lambaste 'em, Din Driscoll!"

"Lambaste 'em--_good_--Din Driscoll!"

The yell swelled to a murderous chorus. These men did not know that they
were raving. A war cry is just the natural vent. It is simply the whole
pack in full cry.

But never before--for now around him there was the contrast of hate and
panting and passions in ferment--had Driscoll seemed so distant a thing
from flesh and the human sphere. In grime, in dust, in smoke, among
faces changing demoniac wrath for the sharp, self-wondering agony of
mortality, his face was cool, serene, with just the hint of a smile
tugging at his lips. His own men would try to look another way, try
uneasily to break the fascination of this strange warrior who led them.

The battle was short, but of the hottest. Its central point was the
little brass howitzer. Driscoll, Grinders, Bledsoe, the Doc, all four
pushed at the carriage or pulled at the trunnion rings, while around
them, hindering them, swaying back and forth over rocks and in the
ditches, the two forces battled for possession, hand to hand, with
six-shooters and clubbed muskets. Grinders fell, cursing angrily.
Bledsoe fell, toppling heavily his great length. The Doc fell. "By
the----" he began, but got no further. He was not mistaken this time.
But the gun was turned at last, and a vicious hand jerked the rope.
Powder grains pierced the eyes of the nearest Imperialists. The shot
tore through the mass of them. Yet Driscoll remembered most how wan, how
_hungry_, they looked.

"Death to the traitors! A muerte! A mu-erte!"

It was a heavy nasal, hurled from the lungs with that force and venom
peculiar to the Spanish tongue. It came from Don Rodrigo, who had pulled
the lanyard, and who now pulled it again and again, crazed first with
joy, then with rage because the emptied gun would not respond.

While the combatants were so confused together, the tiradores in the
upper trenches had to hold their fire, but when the defenders gave way
at last, those above could wait no longer. Four thousand and more, they
leaped their earthworks, and came charging down the slope on what was
left of Driscoll's six hundred.

Grays and brigands face