The cards were still laid out at one end of the table, with the tricks overlapping each other, as they had left them on the previous morning.  But there was something else there of more interest to them, for the breakfast had not been cleared away, and they had been fighting all day with hardly bite or sup.  Even when face to face with death, Nature still cries out for her dues, and the hungry men turned savagely upon the loaf, the ham, and the cold wild duck.  A little cluster of wine bottles stood upon the buffet, and these had their necks knocked off, and were emptied down parched throats.  Three men still took their turn, however, to hold the barricade, for they were not to be caught napping again.  The yells and screeches of the savages came up to them as though all the wolves of the forest were cooped up in the basement, but the stair was deserted save for the seven motionless figures.

“They will not try to rush us again,” said Du Lhut with confidence.  “We have taught them too severe a lesson.”

“They will set fire to the house.”

“It will puzzle them to do that,” said the major-domo.  “It is solid stone, walls and stair, save only for a few beams of wood, very different from those other cottages.”

“Hush!” cried Amos Green, and raised his hand.  The yells had died away, and they heard the heavy thud of a mallet beating upon wood.

“What can it be?”

“Some fresh devilry, no doubt.”

“I regret to say, messieurs,” observed the seigneur, with no abatement of his courtly manner, “that it is my belief that they have learned a lesson from our young friend here, and that they are knocking out the heads of the powder-barrels in the store-room.”

But Du Lhut shook his head at the suggestion.  “It is not in a Redskin to waste powder,” said he.  “It is a deal too precious for them to do that.  Ah, listen to that!”

The yellings and screechings had begun again, but there was a wilder, madder ring in their shrillness, and they were mingled with snatches of song and bursts of laughter.

“Ha!  It is the brandy casks which they have opened,” cried Du Lhut.  “They were bad before, but they will be fiends out of hell now.”

As he spoke there came another burst of whoops, and high above them a voice calling for mercy.  With horror in their eyes the survivors glanced from one to the other.  A heavy smell of burning flesh rose from below, and still that dreadful voice shrieking and pleading.  Then slowly it quavered away and was silent forever.

“Who was it?” whispered De Catinat, his blood running cold in his veins.

“It was Jean Corbeil, I think.”

“May God rest his soul!  His troubles are over.  Would that we were as peaceful as he!  Ah, shoot him!  Shoot!”

A man had suddenly sprung out at the foot of the stair and had swung his arm as though throwing something.  It was the Flemish Bastard.  Amos Green’s musket flashed, but the savage had sprung back again as rapidly as he appeared.  Something splashed down amongst them and rolled across the floor in the lamp-light.