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.