ringing tones. "Those are
no mere flimsy native choppers, but good imported axes."

They were only just in time. Demon figures, swarming out of the mist by
dozens and scores, were on the heels of those who had been told off to
cut a way in. The hissing and yells rose hideously above the terrific
roar of the volleys. And now upon the farther side the savages were
dropping down within the stockade, while the larger section of the
defenders were engaged in repelling this more serious menace.

It was of no use. At that point the defenders were helpless. The place
was divided into two enclosures, and the one in which the Matabele had
secured a footing was the cattle kraal. In less than no time they were
blazing away from the inner fence, and all on that side must perforce
take cover in the houses.

Not without loss. Several men lay dead or grievously disabled, and the
horrible death-hiss of the savages shrilled forth more demoniacally loud
as they poured their fire again and again into these.

And now, taken thus in the rear, the situation of the whites seems
hopeless. Clearly they are doomed. Those within the houses find it all
they can do to keep the assailants already within the cattle kraal from
pouring over, and rushing the position. Those on the front side are
straining every effort to hold in check the attempt to break down the
stockade; for the wily enemy had chosen a spot where the logs stand
thick, and there is scarcely a chink to fire through. And above--
around--the mist, which had lifted somewhat, descends darker than ever
in its dank, thick folds.

Every man there is a desperate and dangerous animal, for every man there
is fighting for his life, and not only for his life, for of that he has
given up all hope, but maddened by the thought of those helpless women.
What of them, when there are no more left to fight for them?

To one we may be sure this aspect of affairs is borne in upon with
searing, maddening force. Outwardly deadly calm, Lamont is
superintending, directing everything, yet when the head of a savage
shows itself above the palings it drops back, drilled by a soft-nosed
bullet from the unerring magazine rifle. His back is against the
dwelling-house of the store, as he watches and directs operations.

"What chance have we?"

The voice, firm and without a tremor, is from the window just at his
back. He cannot resist one quick turn of the head for one last look at
the pale, set,