Those that we could find, however, were filled with water and passed by lines of men to the places in most danger—­that is, practically everywhere—­while other men tried to cut off the advance of the flames by pulling down portions of the building.

But as fast as one fire was extinguished others broke out, for the rain of burning darts and of lighted pots or lamps filled with oil descended continuously from the cliff above.  A strange and terrible sight it was to see them flashing down through the darkness, like the fiery darts that shall destroy the wicked in the day of Armageddon.

Still, we toiled on despairingly.  On the roof we four white men, and some soldiers under the command of Japhet, were pouring water on to several of the gilded domes, which now were well alight.  Close by, wrapped in a dark cloak, and attended by some of her ladies, stood Maqueda.  She was quite calm, although sundry burning arrows and spears, falling with great force from the cliff above, struck the flat roofs close to where she stood.

Her ladies, however, were not calm.  They wept and wrung their hands, while one of them went into violent hysterics in her very natural terror.  Maqueda turned and bade them descend to the courtyard of the gateway, where she said she would join them presently.  They rushed off, rejoicing to escape the sight of those burning arrows, one of which had just pierced a man and set his clothes and hair on fire, causing him to leap from the roof in his madness.

At Oliver’s request I ran to the Child of Kings to lead her to some safer place, if it could be found.  But she would not stir.

“Let me be, O Adams,” she said.  “If I am to die, I will die here.  But I do not think that is fated,” and with her foot she kicked aside a burning spear that had struck the cement roof, and, rebounding, fallen quite close to her.  “If my people will not fight,” she went on, with bitter sarcasm, “at least they understand the other arts of war, for this trick of theirs is clever.  They are cruel also.  Listen to them mocking us in the square.  They ask whether we will roast alive or come out and have our throats cut.  Oh!” she went on, clenching her hands, “oh! that I should have been born the head of such an accursed race.  Let Sheol take them all, for in the day of their tribulation no finger will I lift to save them.”

She was silent for a moment, and down below, near the gateway, I heard some brute screaming, “Pretty pigeons!  Pretty pigeons, are your feathers singeing?  Come then into our pie, pretty pigeons, pretty pigeons!” followed by shouts of ribald laughter.

But it chanced it was this hound himself who went into the “pie.”  Presently, when the flames were brighter, I saw him, in the midst of a crowd of his admirers, singing his foul song, another verse of it about Maqueda, which I will not repeat, and by good fortune managed to put a bullet through his head.  It was not a bad shot considering the light and circumstances, and the only one I fired that night.  I trust also that it will be the last I shall ever fire at any human being.