o boy, who had gone out
again, re-entering. But now with fear depicted on his face, and wild
terror gleaming from his eyes; the latter awry in their sockets, with
little beside the whites seen!

Their own alarm is not much less than his, on hearing what he has to
say. His words are,--

"Oh, Mass Kurnel! Mass Looey! Gemmen all! De place am full ob Indyin
sabbages! Dar outside in de coatyard, more'n a thousan' ob um; an'
murderin' ebbery body!"

At the dread tidings, glasses drop from the hands holding them, flung
down in fear, or fury. Then all, as one man, make for the door, still
standing open as in his scare the negro lad left it.

Before they can reach it, his words are too fully confirmed. Outside
they see painted faces, heads covered with black hanging hair, and
plumes bristling above. Only a glimpse they get of these, indistinct
through the obscurity. But if transitory, not the less terrible--not
less like a tableau in some horrid dream--a glance into hell itself.

The sight brings them to a stand; though, but for an instant. Then,
they rush on towards the doorway, regardless of what may await them
outside.

Outside they are not permitted to pass. Before they can reach the door,
it is shut to with a loud clash; while another but slighter sound tells
of a key turning in the wards, shooting a bolt into its keeper.

"Locked in, by God!" exclaims Hawkins, the rest involuntarily echoing
his wild words; which are succeeded by a cry of rage as from one throat,
though all have voice in it. Then silence, as if they were suddenly
struck dumb.

For several moments they remain paralysed, gazing in one another's faces
in mute despairing astonishment. No one thinks of asking explanation,
or giving it. As by instinct, all realise the situation--a surprise, an
Indian attack. No longer the future danger they have been deeming
probable, but its dread present reality!

Short while do they stand irresolute. Hawkins, a man of herculean
strength, dashes himself against the door, in hopes of heaving it from
its hinges. Others add their efforts.

All idle. The door is of stout timber--oaken--massive as that of a
jail; and, opening inward, can only be forced along with its posts and
lintels.--These are set in the thick wall, embedded, firm as the masonry
itself.

They rush to the windows, in hope of getting egress there.

Equally to be disappointed, baffled. The strong, iron bar resist every
effort to b