By sunrise he was off the roof, running from one weak point to another, encouraging, threatening, fighting, and swearing very hard.

More than once the enemy reached the stockade, and--ominous sign--one or two of their dead lay inside the defence.
"Fight, yer devils--fight!" he cried in a hoarse whisper, for his voice had given way.

"Hell--give 'em hell!" He was everywhere at once, urging on his men, kicking them, pushing them, forcing them up to the stockade.

But he saw the end.

Half-dazed, the blacks fought on in silence.