ed appear where he had aimed--saw it for
just a second before the man reeled forward heavily and sunk as though
he had no backbone.

The powder smoke choked him, but he loved it. He liked the smell of it
and the taste of it, because it led to her. He lost all sense of
personalities. The forms before him were not men. He forgot all about
his comrades; forgot even what it was all about, except that he was
hewing a path to her. It was just a noisy medley in which he had but
one part to play,--shoot and press on to the dungeon which confined
her.

CHAPTER XVI

_The Priest Takes a Hand_

How long this continued--this pressing forward, following the spitting
fire of his hot rifle--Wilson could not tell. From the first he could
make nothing out of the choking confusion of it all, finding his
satisfaction, his motive, his inspiration in the realization that he
was adding the might of his being to the force which was pounding the
men who had dared to touch this girl. He was drunk with this idea. He
fought blindly and with the spirit of his ancestors which ought long
since to have been trained out of him. So foot by foot he fought his
way on and knew it not when brought to a standstill. Only when he
found himself being pressed back with the mass did he realize that
something had happened; reenforcements had arrived to the enemy. But
this meant only that they must fight the harder. Turning, he urged the
men to stand fast. They obeyed for a moment, but the increased force
was too many for them; they were steadily beaten back. For a second it
looked as though they were doomed to annihilation, for once they were
scattered among those narrow streets they would be shot down like
dogs. At this point Wilson became conscious of the presence of a
gaunt figure, dressed in a long, black robe, bearing upon back and
chest in gold embroidery the figure of a blazing sun.

He stood in front of the men a second gazing up at the sky. Even the
enemy paused to watch him. Then turning to the hill men who had
wavered in the rear, he merely pointed his outstretched arm towards
the enemy. The effect was instantaneous; they swept past the
mercenaries, swept past Wilson, yelling and screaming like a horde of
maniacs. They waved queer knives and spears, brandished rifles, and
then, bending low, charged the frightened line of rifles before them.
Wilson paused to look at this strange figure. He recognized him
instantly as the priest of whom he