“Smith’s dead.  That makes fifteen,” said Silas.  “Fifteen out of forty-two, that leaves twenty-seven.  We must hold out.  Len, don’t expose yourselves recklessly.  How goes it at the south bastion?”

“All right.  There’s been firin’ over there all night,” answered one of the men.  “I guess it’s been kinder warm over that way.  But I ain’t heard any shootin’ for some time.”

“Young Bennet is over there, and if the men needed anything they would send him for it,” answered Silas.  “I’ll send some food and water.  Anything else?”

“Powder.  We’re nigh out of powder,” replied the man addressed.  “And we might jes as well make ready fer a high old time.  The red devils hadn’t been quiet all this last hour fer nothin’.”

Silas passed along the narrow hallway which led from the bastion into the main room of the block-house.  As he turned the corner at the head of the stairway he encountered a boy who was dragging himself up the steps.

“Hello!  Who’s this?  Why, Harry!” exclaimed Silas, grasping the boy and drawing him into the room.  Once in the light Silas saw that the lad was so weak he could hardly stand.  He was covered with blood.  It dripped from a bandage wound tightly about his arm; it oozed through a hole in his hunting shirt, and it flowed from a wound over his temple.  The shadow of death was already stealing over the pallid face, but from the grey eyes shone an indomitable spirit, a spirit which nothing but death could quench.

“Quick!” the lad panted.  “Send men to the south wall.  The redskins are breakin’ in where the water from the spring runs under the fence.”

“Where are Metzar and the other men?”

“Dead!  Killed last night.  I’ve been there alone all night.  I kept on shootin’.  Then I gets plugged here under the chin.  Knowin’ it’s all up with me I deserted my post when I heard the Injuns choppin’ on the fence where it was on fire last night.  But I only—­run—­because—­they’re gettin’ in.”

“Wetzel, Bennet, Clarke!” yelled Silas, as he laid the boy on the bench.

Almost as Silas spoke the tall form of the hunter confronted him.  Clarke and the other men were almost as prompt.

“Wetzel, run to the south wall.  The Indians are cutting a hole through the fence.”

Wetzel turned, grabbed his rifle and an axe and was gone like a flash.

“Sullivan, you handle the men here.  Bessie, do what you can for this brave lad.  Come, Bennet, Clarke, we must follow Wetzel,” commanded Silas.

Mrs. Zane hastened to the side of the fainting lad.  She washed away the blood from the wound over his temple.  She saw that a bullet had glanced on the bone and that the wound was not deep or dangerous.  She unlaced the hunting shirt at the neck and pulled the flaps apart.  There on the right breast, on a line with the apex of the lung, was a horrible gaping wound.  A murderous British slug had passed through the lad.  From the hole at every heart-beat poured the dark, crimson life-tide.  Mrs. Zane turned her white face away for a second; then she folded a small piece of linen, pressed it tightly over the wound, and wrapped a towel round the lad’s breast.