“Zane, the Indians and the Britishers are getting ready for more determined and persistent effort than any that has yet been made,” said Sullivan.

“How so?” asked Silas.

“They have got hammers from the blacksmith’s shop, and they boarded my boat and found a keg of nails.  Now they are making a number of ladders.  If they make a rush all at once and place ladders against the fence we’ll have the Fort full of Indians in ten minutes.  They can’t stand in the face of a cannon charge.  We must use the cannon.”

“Clarke, go into Capt.  Boggs’ cabin and fetch out two kegs of powder,” said Silas.

The young man turned in the direction of the cabin, while Silas and the others ascended the stairs.

“The firing seems to be all on the south side,” said Silas, “and is not so heavy as it was.”

“Yes, as I said, the Indians on the river front are busy with their new plans,” answered Sullivan.

“Why does not Clarke return?” said Silas, after waiting a few moments at the door of the long room.  “We have no time to lose.  I want to divide one keg of that powder among the men.”

Clarke appeared at the moment.  He was breathing heavily as though he had run up the stairs, or was laboring under a powerful emotion.  His face was gray.

“I could not find any powder!” he exclaimed.  “I searched every nook and corner in Capt.  Boggs’ house.  There is no powder there.”

A brief silence ensued.  Everyone in the block-house heard the young man’s voice.  No one moved.  They all seemed waiting for someone to speak.  Finally Silas Zane burst out: 

“Not find it?  You surely could not have looked well.  Capt.  Boggs himself told me there were three kegs of powder in the storeroom.  I will go and find it myself.”

Alfred did not answer, but sat down on a bench with an odd numb feeling round his heart.  He knew what was coming.  He had been in the Captain’s house and had seen those kegs of powder.  He knew exactly where they had been.  Now they were not on the accustomed shelf, nor at any other place in the storeroom.  While he sat there waiting for the awful truth to dawn on the garrison, his eyes roved from one end of the room to the other.  At last they found what they were seeking.  A young woman knelt before a charcoal fire which she was blowing with a bellows.  It was Betty.  Her face was pale and weary, her hair dishevelled, her shapely arms blackened with charcoal, but notwithstanding she looked calm, resolute, self-contained.  Lydia was kneeling by her side holding a bullet-mould on a block of wood.  Betty lifted the ladle from the red coals and poured the hot metal with a steady hand and an admirable precision.  Too much or too little lead would make an imperfect ball.  The little missile had to be just so for those soft-metal, smooth-bore rifles.  Then Lydia dipped the mould in a bucket of water, removed it and knocked it on the floor.  A small, shiny lead bullet rolled out.  She rubbed it with a greasy rag and then dropped it in a jar.  For nearly forty hours, without sleep or rest, almost without food, those brave girls had been at their post.