Pasmore telling the others to remain at their loopholes, went to a room at the end of the long passage, Dorothy following him.

The rebels must have applied a match to some of the inflammable matter, for in another instant the growing, hissing roar of fire was audible.

“It will spread to the house in a few minutes more,” remarked the sergeant, quietly, “and I’m afraid that will be the end of it.”

But he had already seized an axe and was opening the door.

“Shut the door after me and go to your father,” he exclaimed.  “I’ll cut down the slabs that connect it with the house.  Child-of-Light may come up yet.  Good-bye—­in case of accidents.”

She caught him by the arm and looked into his face.

“You can’t do that—­you must not do that!  You are sure to be shot down.”

“And I may be shot if I don’t.”  Forcibly, but with what gentleness the action permitted, he disengaged her firm white hand.

“You can’t use an axe with that arm,” she pleaded, all her old reserve vanishing.

“I can at a pinch,” he replied.  “It is good of you to trouble about me.”

He slipped out and pulled the door behind him.  The look he had seen in her eyes had come as a revelation and given him courage.

She stood for a moment speechless and motionless, with a strained, set expression on her face.  It was old Rory who aroused her to the gravity of the situation.  He came running along the passage.

“Come hyar, honey, and into the cellar wid ye,” he cried.  “There’s more of the inimy comin’ along the trail, but there’s still a chanct.  Nivir say die, sez I.”

As if roused from some horrible dream her feverish energy and readiness of resource returned to her.

“Come into the next room,” she cried to Rory; “we can see the oil-house from the window.  He is out there pulling down the stockade and we can keep them back from him.  Quick, Rory!”

Like one possessed she made for the first door on the left of the passage.

Along the trail came the new lot of half-breeds and Indians to the assistance of their fellows, or, perhaps it would be more correct to say, to see to it that they did not miss their full share of the plunder.  Roused to fresh efforts by the sight of the others, those on the spot fairly riddled the doors and windows of the house.  The bullets were whizzing into the kitchen in every direction, splintering the furniture and sending the plaster flying from the walls until the room was filled with a fine, blinding, choking dust.  It was impossible to hold out much longer.  The final rush was sure to come in a very few minutes—­and all would be over.

Pasmore had cut off the house from the burning shed by hewing down the connecting wall, while Dorothy Douglas and Rory, by firing from a side window, had kept the enemy from approaching; After what seemed an age, Pasmore rejoined them.