The moon riding now clear overhead irradiated that scene of impending strife.
Flanagan, standing in his stirrups, attempted to harangue the mob.

But he was at a loss what to say that would appease them, nor able to speak a language they could understand.

An angry peasant made a slash at him with a billhook.

He parried the blow on his sabre, and with the flat of it knocked his assailant senseless.
Then the storm burst, and the mob flung itself upon the dragoons.
"Bad cess to you!" cried Flanagan.

"Will ye listen to me, ye murthering villains." Then in despair "Char-r-r-ge!" he roared, and headed for the gateway.
The troopers attempted in vain to reach it.