The leaping flames spread and shot forth licking tongues and, in a few minutes, the pile was a roaring crackling furnace.

The mob grew denser and denser toward the gate side of the Prison, leaving the remaining portions of the perimeter thinly surrounded by those who possessed firearms and had been instructed to shoot at loopholes and at all who showed themselves over the wall.  It was noticeable to Captain Malet-Marsac that the ever-increasing mob opposite the fire left a clear front to the more-or-less uniformed and disciplined body that had taken up a position commanding the gate.

That was the game was it?  Burn down the gate, pour in a tremendous fire as the gate fell, and then let the mob rush in and do its devilmost....

What was happening on the hill-top?  The picket must be holding whatever force had attacked it, for no shots were entering the Prison compound and the only casualties were among those at the loopholes and on the ladders and platforms round the walls.  How long would the gate last?  Absolutely useless to attempt to pour water on the fire.  Even if it were not certain death to attempt it, one might as well try to fly, as to quench that furnace with jugs and chatties[69] of water.

  [69] Bowls.

There was nothing to be done.  Every man who could use a rifle was at loophole or embrasure, ammunition was plentiful, all non-combatants were hidden.  Every one understood the standing-orders in case of such an emergency....

The gate was on fire.  It was smoking on the inner side, warping, cracking, little flames were beginning to appear tentatively, and disappear again.

“Now bugler!” said Captain Malet-Marsac, and Moussa Isa’s locum tenens blew his only call—­a series of long loud G’s....  The gate blazed, before long it would fall....  A hush fell upon the expectant multitude without, the men of the more-or-less uniformed and disciplined party raised their rifles, a big burly man bawled orders....

With a crash and leaping fountain of sparks the gate fell into the dying fire, a mighty roar burst from the multitude, and a crashing fusillade from the rifles of the uniformed men....

As their magazine-fire slackened, dwindled to a desultory popping, and ceased, the mob with a howl of triumph surged forward to the gaping gateway, trampled and scattered the glowing remnants of the fire, swarmed yelling through, and—­found themselves face to face with a stout semicircular rampart of stone, earth and sandbags, which, loopholed, embrasured and strongly manned, spanned the gateway in a thirty-yard arc.  From the centre of it, pointing at the entrance, looked the maxim gun.

“Fire,” shouted a voice, and in a minute the place was a shambles.  Before Maxim and Lee-Metford were too hot to touch, before the baffled foe fell back, those who surged in through the gate climbed, not over a wall of dead, but up on to a platform of dead, a plateau through which ran a valley literally blasted out by the ceaseless maxim-fire....