Ali, perceiving blood flowing from a wound in his chest, roared like a bull with rage.

No one dared to face his wrath, but shots were fired at the kiosk from all sides, and four of his guards fell dead beside him.

He no longer knew which way to turn, hearing the noise made by the assailants under the platform, who were firing through the boards on which he stood.

A ball wounded him in the side, another from below lodged in his spine; he staggered, clung to a window, then fell on the sofa.

"Hasten," he cried to one of his officers, "run, my friend, and strangle my poor Basilissa; let her not fall a prey to these infamous wretches." The door opened, all resistance ceased, the guards hastened to escape by the windows.