"God!" he panted, his right eye misted with blood from a jagged cut
on the brow. Shrieks of rage, from without, were answered by jeers and
shouts of exultation from the Legionaries.
"_Nom de Dieu!_" gasped Leclair. His neck was blackened with a
powder burn, and the tunic was ripped clean off him. 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!" He waved his big fists enthusiastically on
high, and blinked his one good eye. "If a man can die this way, sure,
what's the use o' living?"
"Steady men! Steady!" the Master cautioned, reloading his gun. "No
time, now, for shouting. Load up! This fight's only begun!"
Already, as they recharged their weapons, the door was groaning under
the frantic attack of the Arabs and Maghrabis. Wild curses, howls to
Allah and to the Prophet, came in dull confusion through the massive
plates.
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