low under
the roof of the building. Thoreau and his men were firing through
loopholes! John Adare and Jean saw this, and with loud cries they led
their men fairly out into the open in an effort to draw the fire from
Philip and the log-bearers. Not a shot was turned in their direction.

A leaden hail enveloped Philip and his little band. One of the
log-bearers crumpled down without a moan. Instantly his place was
filled. Twenty yards more and a second staggered out from the line,
clutched a hand to his breast, and sank into the snow. The last man
filled his place. They were only a hundred yards from the door now, but
without a rock or a stump between them and death. Another of the
log-bearers rolled out from the line, and Philip sprang into the
vacancy. A fourth, a fifth--and with a wild cry of horror John Adare
called upon Philip to drop the log.

Nothing but the bullets could stop the little band now. Seventy yards!
Sixty! Only fifty more--and the man ahead of Philip fell under his
feet. The remaining six staggered over him with the log. And now up
from behind them came Jean Jacques Croisset and his men, firing blindly
at the loopholes, and enveloping the men along the log in those last
thirty yards that meant safety from the fire above. And behind him came
John Adare, and from the south Kaskisoon and his Crees, a yelling,
triumphant horde of avengers now at the very doors of the Devil's Nest!

Philip staggered a step aside, winded, panting, a warm trickle of blood
running over his face. He heard the first thunder of the battering-ram
against the door, the roaring voice of John Adare, and then a hand like
ice smote his heart as he saw Jean huddled up in the snow. In an
instant he was on his knees at the half-breed's side. Jean was not
dead. But in his eyes was a fading light that struck Philip with
terror. A wan smile crept over his lips. With his head in Philip's arm,
he whispered:

"M'sieur, I am afraid I am struck through the lung. I do not know, but
I am afraid." His voice was strangely steady. But in his eyes was that
swiftly fading light! "If should go--you must know," he went on, and
Philip bent low to hear his words above the roar of voices and the
crashing of the battering-ram. "You must know--to take my place in the
fight for Josephine. I think--you have guessed it. The baby was not
Josephine's. IT WAS MIRIAM'S!"

"Yes, yes, Jean!" cried Philip into the fading eyes. "That was what I
guessed!"

"Don't