Willoughby had a short consultation with Joyce, and then he set seriously about the preparations necessary for a light defence.  By a little management, and some persona, risk, the bullet-proof shutters of the north wing of the Hut were all closed, rendering the rear of the buildings virtually impregnable.  When this was done, and the gates of the area were surely shut, the place was like a ship in a gale, under short canvass and hove-to.  The enemy within the palisades were powerless, to all appearance, the walls of stone preventing anything like an application of fire.  Of the last, however, there was a little danger on the roof, the Indians frequently using arrows for this purpose, and water was placed on the staging in readiness to be used on occasion.

All these preparations occupied some time, and it was quite dark ere they were completed.  Then Willoughby had a moment for reflection; the firing having entirely ceased, and nothing further remaining to do.

“We are safe for the present, Joyce,” the major observed, as he and the serjeant stood together on the staging, after having consulted on the present aspect of things; “and I have a solemn duty, yet, to perform—­ my dear mother—­and the body of my father—­”

“Yes, sir; I would not speak of either, so long as it was your honour’s pleasure to remain silent on the subject.  Madam Willoughby is sorely cut down, as you may imagine, sir; and, as for my gallant old commander, he died in his harness, as a soldier should.”

“Where have you taken the body?—­has my mother seen it?”

“Lord bless you, sir, Madam Willoughby had his honour carried into her own room, and there she and Miss Beulah”—­so all of the Hut still called the wife of Evert Beekman—­“she and Miss Beulah, kneel, and pray, and weep, as you know, sir, ladies will, whenever anything severe comes over their feelings—­God bless them both, we all say, and think, ay, and pray, too, in our turns, sir.”

“Very well, Joyce.  Even a soldier may drop a tear over the dead body of his own father.  God only knows what this night will bring forth, and I may never have a moment as favourable as this, for discharging so solemn a duty.”

“Yes, your honour”—­Joyce fancied that the major had succeeded to this appellation by the decease of the captain—­“yes, your honour, the commandments, that the Rev. Mr. Woods used to read to us of a Sunday, tell us all about that; and it is quite as much the duty of a Christian to mind the commandments, I do suppose, as it is for a soldier to obey orders.  God bless you, sir, and carry you safe through the affair.  I had a touch of it with Miss Maud, myself, and know what it is.  It’s bad enough to lose an old commander in so sudden a way like, without having to feel what has happened in company with so sweet ladies, as these we have in the house.  As for these blackguards down inside the works, let them give you no uneasiness; it will be light work for us to keep them busy, compared to what your honour has to do.”