And the last chamber's load became suddenly too precious for my person; for there were many voices overhead; there were many feet upon the stairs.
Harris came first--head-first--saw me still living as he reeled--hurled himself upon the boxes and one of these into the hole--all far quicker than my pen can write it.

The manoeuvre, being the captain's, explained itself: on his heels trod Rattray, with one who brought me to my feet like the call of silver trumpets.
"The house is surrounded," says the squire, very quick and quiet; "is this your doing, Cole ?" "I wish it was," said I; "but I can't complain; it's saved my life." And I looked at Santos, standing dignified and alert, my still smoking pistol in his hand.
"Two things to do," says Rattray--"I don't care which." He strode across the cellar and pulled at the one full bin; something slid out, it was a binful of empty bottles, and this time they were allowed to crash upon the floor; the squire stood pointing to a manhole at the back of the bin.

"That's one alternative," said he; "but it will mean leaving this much stuff at least," pointing to the boxes, "and probably all the rest at the other end.

The other thing's to stop and fight!" "I fight," said Santos, stalking to the door.

"Have you no more ammunition for me, friend Cole?
Then I must live you alive; adios, senhor!" Harris cast a wistful look towards the manhole, not in cowardice, I fancy, but in sudden longing for the sea, the longing of a poor devil of a sailor-man doomed to die ashore.