But the Mercenaries were not content with what they had done.  They invaded the entrance, killing the wounded and searching out the unhurt that, like ourselves, were playing dead.  I remember one man they dragged out of a heap, who pleaded abjectly until a revolver shot cut him short.  Then there was a woman who charged from a heap, snarling and shooting.  She fired six shots before they got her, though what damage she did we could not know.  We could follow these tragedies only by the sound.  Every little while flurries like this occurred, each flurry culminating in the revolver shot that put an end to it.  In the intervals we could hear the soldiers talking and swearing as they rummaged among the carcasses, urged on by their officers to hurry up.

At last they went to work on our heap, and we could feel the pressure diminish as they dragged away the dead and wounded.  Garthwaite began uttering aloud the signals.  At first he was not heard.  Then he raised his voice.

“Listen to that,” we heard a soldier say.  And next the sharp voice of an officer.  “Hold on there!  Careful as you go!”

Oh, that first breath of air as we were dragged out!  Garthwaite did the talking at first, but I was compelled to undergo a brief examination to prove service with the Iron Heel.

“Agents-provocateurs all right,” was the officer’s conclusion.  He was a beardless young fellow, a cadet, evidently, of some great oligarch family.

“It’s a hell of a job,” Garthwaite grumbled.  “I’m going to try and resign and get into the army.  You fellows have a snap.”

“You’ve earned it,” was the young officer’s answer.  “I’ve got some pull, and I’ll see if it can be managed.  I can tell them how I found you.”

He took Garthwaite’s name and number, then turned to me.

“And you?”

“Oh, I’m going to be married,” I answered lightly, “and then I’ll be out of it all.”

And so we talked, while the killing of the wounded went on.  It is all a dream, now, as I look back on it; but at the time it was the most natural thing in the world.  Garthwaite and the young officer fell into an animated conversation over the difference between so-called modern warfare and the present street-fighting and sky-scraper fighting that was taking place all over the city.  I followed them intently, fixing up my hair at the same time and pinning together my torn skirts.  And all the time the killing of the wounded went on.  Sometimes the revolver shots drowned the voices of Garthwaite and the officer, and they were compelled to repeat what they had been saying.