Van Dorn's quick eye took in the situation as he waved his torch, and it
lighted ceiling and pilaster, the close-fastened doors on the left and
the great stairway-well beyond, filled with black forms in the attitude
of defence.
"Patty Cannon has come!" he shouted again; "follow me!"
An instant only brought him to the base of the staircase, and the
lightning flashing in the gaping windows and fallen door revealed him to
his followers, with his yellow hair waving, and his long, silken
mustache like golden flame.
A mighty yell rose from the emboldened gang as they formed behind him,
with bludgeons and iron knuckles, billies and slings, and whatever would
disable but fail to kill.
Van Dorn, far ahead, made three murderous slashes of his whip across the
human objects above, and, with a toss of that formidable weapon, clubbed
it and darted on.
At the moment loud explosions and smoke and cries filled the echoing
place, as a volley of firearms burst from the landing, sweeping the line
of the windows and raking the hall. The band on the floor below stopped,
and some were down, groaning and cursing.
"They're armed; it's treachery," a voice, in panic, cried, and the
cowardly assailants ran to places of refuge, some crawling out at the
portal, some dropping from the windows, and others getting behind the
stairway, out of fire, and seeking desperately to draw the bolts of the
smaller door there.
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