Four rifles cracked like one, and three rebels dropped where they stood, while a fourth, clapping his hands to the lower part of his body, spun round and round, stamping his feet, reviling the comrades who had brought him there, and blaspheming wildly, while the blood spurted out between his fingers.  At the same moment, several bullets embedded themselves in the thick window shutters and in the walls.  One only found its way through the dried mud between the logs, and this smashed a bowl that stood on the dresser within two feet of Dorothy’s head.  She merely glanced at it casually, and picking up the basket of cartridges, prepared to hand them round.  With fingers keen and warming to their work, the defenders emptied the contents of their magazines into the astonished half-breeds and Indians.  It was more than the latter had bargained for.  They made for an open shed that stood hard by, leaving their dead and wounded in the snow.

“What ho!  Johnnie Crapaud, you pig!” cried Rory, withdrawing his rifle from the loophole, and applying his mouth to it instead.  “It’s the Red River jig I’ve bin dyin’ to tache ye for many a long day.”

At the same moment Jacques caught sight of his old bete noire, Leopold St. Croix the elder, and, not to be outdone by his friend Rory in the exchange of seasonable civilities with the enemy—­although, when he came to think of it afterwards, he might as well have shot his man—­he was applying his mouth to, his loophole to shout something in the same vein when the quick-eyed Leopold fired a shot at the spot from which the gun-barrel had just been withdrawn.  So lucky or good was his aim that he struck the mud in the immediate neighbourhood of the hole, and sent the debris flying into the French-Canadian’s mouth.  Jacques spent the rest of his time when in the house watching for a long-haired half-breed with a red sash round his waist, who answered to the name of St. Croix the elder.

Ping, ping, ping, zip—­phut—­cr-runck! and the bullets played a very devil’s tattoo upon the walls and windows.  The enemy were still five to one, and if they could only succeed in rushing in and breaking down the doors, victory would be in their hands.  But to do that meant death to so many.

Another half-hour, and the firing still continued, though in a more desultory fashion.  It was a strange waiting game, and a grim one, that was being played.  The defenders had shifted their positions to guard against surprise.  Douglas had in vain begged his daughter to leave the room and join the women in an inner apartment, but she had pleaded so hard with him that he allowed her to remain.

As for the sergeant, he was outwardly, at least, his old self.  He was silent and watchful, showing neither concern nor elation.  He moved from one position to another, and never pulled the trigger of his Winchester without making sure of something.  With the help of Douglas he had pulled on his fur coat again, as the fire was going out, and he was beginning to feel the cold in his wound.