sweeping a space clear with my weapon; hands gripped my throat, my hair, and I tore loose; fingers clutched at my legs, but I kicked free. I was conscious of blows, of wounds; I knew when Harwood fell, and was trampled under foot; I heard O'Hare scream; I saw the hated face of Anse Cowan in the ruck and leaped for him, but who my mad blow struck I could not tell. Some rush, some quick pressure of bodies, hurled me side-wise, caught me in a vise; I tripped over a dead man, staggered to my feet again. I got footing on the pulpit platform, and held it for an instant, my gun-barrel crashing into the mass of faces below. Wharton joined me, a bull mad with rage; I saw him rend the pulpit stand from the floor, and hurl it with all his strength into the ruck. Then twenty hands gripped him, hauling him down, a clubbed musket descended, and the sergeant pitched forward like a log of wood. There was a shot, the blow of a rifle barrel, and I went down, the very breath of life seemingly knocked out of me.
I fell on the platform, back of where the pulpit desk had stood, and a body lay across me. If I lost consciousness it was for no more than an instant, yet my whole body felt numbed and useless. I could scarcely move my fingers to unclasp them from the gun-barrel, and every breath I drew was in pain.
