out of the blackness ahead of him, and he knew that the firing had begun. He could hear the whine of the bullets as they passed overhead; he could hear the lead ping and pound against the car-sides. He had little fear for the boxes of ammunition surrounding him; the cartridges were covered enough by the powdered fluxing-slag to be cushioned against concussion. Once, indeed, a bullet splintered against the wood of the very box against which he leaned. He held his breath and waited, racking and swinging onward toward the moving lights.
But still the firing kept up. The white-painted gate before him seemed a mirage, which receded as he advanced. It seemed that he would never get to it. And he knew what a bullet might do at any moment. He carried no lights, and he felt certain that as yet the men attacking him had nothing against which to centralise their fire. But as he came closer, he knew that this advantage would be lost. Then it suddenly occurred to him that a show of resistance would be a possible help to him. He had no time to feel for one of the carbines that still lay somewhere about the bottom of the car. But his groping fingers found the revolver on the car-seat cushion behind them.
Before his arm could go up, however, he knew that it was too late. The fire was pouring in
