A second day came, and then a third, and the savages resumed their continuous skirmishing.  A single warrior would creep up, fire a shot, and then spring away.  They did little damage, but they showed that no one was safe for a moment outside the circle of wagons.  If help did not come, they would never leave their rock.

Time wore on, and the beleaguered camp became again a prey to gloom.  Women and children fell sick, and the hearts of the men were heavy.  The ring of savages drew closer, and more than once bullets fell inside the circle of the wagons.  It was hard work now for Paul and Shif’less Sol to keep up the spirits of the women and children, and once, at a council, some one talked of surrender.  They might at least get good treatment.

“Never think of such a thing!” said Henry Ware.  “All the men would be killed, tortured to death, and all the women and children would be taken away into slavery.  Hold on!  Jim Hart will surely get through.”

But the warriors steadily grew bolder.  They seemed to be animated by the certainty of triumph.  Often through the day and night they uttered taunting shouts, and now and then, in the day time, they would appear at the edge of the woods and make derisive gestures.  Daniel Poe grew gloomy, and sadly shook his head.

“Help must come soon,” he said, “or our people will not have spirit to beat back the savages the next time they try to rush the camp.”

“It will come, it will surely come!” said Henry confidently.

The worst night of all arrived.  More of the women and children fell sick, and they did not have the energy to build up bright fires.  It was to Ross and Shif’less Sol that this task fell; but, though they kept the fires high, they accomplished little else.  Paul lay down about midnight and slept several hours, but it was a troubled night.  The savages did not rest.  They were continually flitting about among the trees at the foot of the hill, and firing at the sentinels.  Little flashes of flame burst out here and there in the undergrowth, and the crackle of the Indian rifles vexed continually.

Paul rose at the first coming of the dawn, pale, unrested, and anxious.  He walked to the earthwork, and saw Henry there, watching as always, seemingly tireless.  The sun was just shooting above the hills, and Paul knew that a brilliant day was at hand.

“At any rate, Henry,” Paul said, “I prefer the day to the night while we are here.”

Henry did not reply.  A sudden light had leaped into his eye, and he was bent slightly forward, in the attitude of one who listens intently.

“What is it, Henry?” asked Paul.

Henry lifted his hand for silence.  His attitude did not change.  Every nerve was strained, but the light remained in his eye.

“Paul,” he cried, “don’t you hear them?  Rifle shots, far away and very faint, but they are coming toward us!  Long Jim is here, and Wareville with him!”