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dows and the cellar, nor the fury of attack, nor, finally, when
the door yielded, the frenzied madness of extermination.
The assailants, rushing into the wine-shop, their feet en-
tangled in the panels of the door which had been beaten
in and flung on the ground, found not a single combatant
there. The spiral staircase, hewn asunder with the axe, lay in
the middle of the tap-room, a few wounded men were just
breathing their last, every one who was not killed was on
the first floor, and from there, through the hole in the ceil-
ing, which had formed the entrance of the stairs, a terrific
fire burst forth. It was the last of their cartridges. When they
were exhausted, when these formidable men on the point of
death had no longer either powder or ball, each grasped in
his hands two of the bottles which Enjolras had reserved,
and of which we have spoken, and held the scaling party in
check with these frightfully fragile clubs. They were bottles
of aquafortis.
We relate these gloomy incidents of carnage as they oc-
curred. The besieged man, alas! converts everything into a
weapon. Greek fire did not disgrace Archimedes, boiling
pitch did not disgrace Bayard. All war is a thing of terror,
and there is no choice in it. The musketry of the besiegers,
though confined and embarrassed by being directed from
below upwards, was deadly. The rim of the hole in the ceil-
ing was speedily surrounded by heads of the slain, whence
dripped long, red and smoking streams, the uproar was in-
describable; a close and burning smoke almost produced
night over this combat. Words are lacking to express horror
when it has reached this pitch. There were no longer men in