I saw the gleam of knives, the gripping of fingers, the mad outshooting of fists.

I was a part of it, and yet hardly realized what I was doing.

I had lost all consciousness save the desire to strike.

I know I shouted orders into the din, driving my carbine at every face fronting me; I know others came through the smoke cloud, and we hurled them back, fairly cleaving a lane through them to the hall door.

I recall stumbling over dead bodies, of having a wounded man clutch at my legs, of facing that mob with whirling gun stock until the last fugitive was safely behind me, and then being hurled back against the wall by sudden rush.
How I got there I cannot tell, but I was in the hall, my clothing a mass of rags, my body aching from head to foot, and still struggling.