heon rose under me, I stumbled, and it fell
again. Once more the awful changing notes of the war-whoop sounded
without. A body bumped on the boards, a white light rose before my eyes,
and a sharp pain leaped in my side. Then all was black again, but I had
my senses still, and my fingers closed around the knotted muscles of an
arm. I thrust the pistol in my hand against flesh, and fired. Two of us
fell together, but the thought of Polly Ann got me staggering to my feet
again, calling her name. By the grace of God I heard her answer.

"Are ye hurt, Davy?"

"No," said I, "no. And you?"

We drifted together. 'Twas she who had the presence of mind.

"The chest--quick, the chest!"

We stumbled over a body in reaching it. We seized the handles, and with
all our strength hauled it athwart the loose puncheon that seemed to be
lifting even then. A mighty splintering shook the door.

"To the ports!" cried Polly Ann, as our heads knocked together.

To find the rifles and prime them seemed to take an age. Next I was
staring through the loophole along a barrel, and beyond it were three
black forms in line on a long beam. I think we fired--Polly Ann and
I--at the same time. One fell. We saw a comedy of the beam dropping
heavily on the foot of another, and he limping off with a guttural howl
of rage and pain. I fired a pistol at him, but missed him, and then I
was ramming a powder charge down the long barrel of the rifle. Suddenly
there was silence,--even the children had ceased crying. Outside, in the
dooryard, a feathered figure writhed like a snake towards the fence. The
moon still etched the picture in black and white.

Shots awoke me, I think, distant shots. And they sounded like the
ripping and tearing of cloth for a wound. 'Twas no new sound to me.

"Davy, dear," said a voice, tenderly.

Out of the mist the tear-stained face of Polly Ann bent over me. I put
up my hand, and dropped it again with a cry. Then, my senses coming with
a rush, the familiar objects of the cabin outlined themselves: Tom's
winter hunting shirt, Polly Ann's woollen shift and sunbonnet on their
pegs; the big stone chimney, the ladder to the loft, the closed door,
with a long, jagged line across it where the wood was splintered; and,
dearest of all, the chubby forms of Peggy and little Tom playing on the
trundle-bed. Then my glance wandered to the floor, and on the puncheons
were three stains. I closed my eyes.

Again came a far-off rattle, like