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Not one of the Legionaries had uniforms completely whole. Hardly half of them still kept their slippers. Torn, barefooted, burned, bleeding, decimated, they still laughed. Wild gibes penetrated the door of the treasure-crypt, against which the mad attack was already beginning to clash and thunder. "Faith, but this is a grand fight!" the major exulted. "It's Donnybrook with trimmings!"
The very frenzy of the attack defeated the Arab's object, for it drove the survivors back into the treasure-crypt. And in the narrow doorway the white men could for a moment hold back the howling tides of fury. With cold lead, butts, naked fists, the remaining Legionaries smashed a little clearance-room, corpse-heaped. They stumbled, fought, fell into the crypt.
She snatched down one of the copper lamps that hung by chains from the dim ceiling of the treasure-crypt. Over the heads of the Legionaries she flung blazing sandal-oil out upon the white-robed jam of madmen. The flaming oil flared up along those thin, white robes. It dripped on wounded and on dead. Wild howls of anguish pierced the tumult. In the minute of confusion, the door boomed shut.
What we have just heard is the blowing-in of the treasure-crypt door. There's no time to lose, now. Who jumps, first?" "Wait a minute!" cried "Captain Alden." Her eyes were gleaming through the mask, with keen excitement. "Why neglect any chance of possibly surviving?" "What do you mean?" the Master demanded. "Those wine-sacks!" "Well?" "Emptied, inflated, and tied up again, they'll float us!
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