As for Nick and the major, they pressed forward, too earnest and excited, to speak.  The former measured the distance by his ear; and thought there was still time to gain a cover, if no moment was lost.  To reach the foot of the cliff, took just a minute; to ascend to the hole in the palisade, half as much time; and to pass it, a quarter.  Maud was dragged ahead, as much as she ran; and the period when the three were passing swiftly round to the gate, was pregnant with imminent risk.  They were seen, and fifty rifles were discharged, as it might be, at a command.  The bullets pattered against the logs of the Hut, and against the palisades, but no one was hurt.  The voice of Willoughby opened the gate, and the next instant the three were within the shelter of the court.

Chapter XXVIII.

  “They have not perish’d—­no! 
  Kind words, remembered voices, once so sweet,
  Smiles, radiant long ago,
  And features, the great soul’s apparent seat;

  “All shall come back, each tie
  Of pure affection shall be knit again;
  Alone shall evil die,
  And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

  “And then shall I behold
  Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
  And her, who still and cold,
  Fills the next grave—­the beautiful and young.”

  Bryant’s Past.

The scene that followed passed like a hurricane sweeping over the valley.  Joyce had remained on the ridge of the roof, animating his little garrison, and endeavouring to intimidate his enemies, to the last moment.  The volley of bullets had reached the palisades and the buildings, and he was still unharmed.  But the sound of the major’s voice below, and the cry that Miss Maud and Nick were at the gate, produced a sudden change in all his dispositions for the defence.  The serjeant ran below himself, to report and receive his orders from the new commander, while all the negroes, females as well as males, rushed down into the court, to meet their young master and mistress.

It is not easy to describe the minute that succeeded, after Willoughby and Maud were surrounded by the blacks.  The delight of these untutored beings was in proportion to their recent sorrow.  The death of their master, and the captivity of Master Bob and Miss Maud, had appeared to them like a general downfall of the family of Willoughby; but here was a revival of its hopes, that came as unexpectedly as its previous calamities.  Amid the clamour, cries, tears, lamentations, and bursts of uncontrollable delight, Joyce could scarce find a moment in which to discharge his duty.

“I see how it is, serjeant,” exclaimed Willoughby; “the assault is now making, and you desire orders.”

“There is not an instant to lose, Major Willoughby; the enemy are at the palisades already, and there is no one at his station but Jamie and young Blodget.”

“To your posts, men—­to your posts, everybody.  The house shall be made good at all hazards.  For God’s sake, Joyce, give me arms.  I feel that my father’s wrongs are to be revenged.”