Its sounds were those of wild beasts.

It smelled of the shambles.
By one of those queer chances which sometimes decide the hazard between life and death, the window nearest that end of the room where the sailors strove to protect a few shrieking women had not been broken in.

Here, then, was a tiny bay of refuge; from it the men of the _Andromeda_ and the _Unser Fritz_, Bulmer, Verity, Iris, and such of the Brazilian ladies as had not fled to the upper rooms at the initial volley, looked out on an amazing butchery.

De Sylva, no longer young, and never a robust man, had been dragged from mortal peril many times by his devoted adherents.
Carmela had snatched a machete from the fingers of a dying soldier, and was fighting like one possessed of a fiend.
Once, when a combined rush drove the defenders nearly on top of the non-combatants, Iris would have striven to draw the half-demented girl into the little haven with the other women.
But Coke thrust her back, shouting: "Leave 'er alone.

She'll set about you if you touch her!" Dickey Bulmer, too, who was displaying a fortitude hardly to be expected in a man of his years and habits, thought that interference was useless.
"Let 'er do what she can," he said.