“It was a daring thing to do,” said Henry at last, “to come down the chimney that way; but it has been done before in Kentucky.”

Then they reloaded their rifles, but Paul was like one in a dream.  It seemed to him now that he could not endure the long hours in the cabin with those dead faces on the floor staring at him with their dead eyes.

“Henry,” he said, “we can’t keep them here.”

“No,” replied Henry, “we can’t; but we must wait a little.”

Paul sat down on the bench.  He felt for a moment faint and sick.  The little cabin was full of rifle smoke, and it lay heavy in his nostrils and upon his lungs.  He felt as if he were breathing poisoned air.  But the smoke gradually drifted away up the chimney, and the thick, clogging feeling departed from his lungs and nostrils.  Strength and spirit came back.

“How are we to get rid of them?” he asked, nodding toward the dead warriors.

“Let’s wait an hour at least, and I’ll show you,” replied Henry.

The hour passed, but to Paul it seemed two.  Then Henry took the largest of the warriors and dragged him to the wall just beneath the window.  The second and third he did the same way.

“Now, Paul,” he said, “you must take down the bar and open the window.  Then I’ll pitch them out.  The besiegers will be surprised, and they won’t have time to get at us.”

Paul accepted his part of the task eagerly.  There might be danger, but better that than having the dead men lying on the floor and staring at him with dead eyes.  He took down the bar and quickly held the window open.  Henry heaved up the bodies of the warriors and cast them out, one by one, each falling with a dull, heavy sound to the ground below.  Then Paul slammed back the window and shot the bar into place.  As he did so three or four rifles flashed from the forest, and the bullets pattered upon the heavy oaken shutter.

“Too late,” said Henry, “We took ’em by surprise, as I thought we should.”

Paul drew a long and deep breath.  The cabin had taken on a brighter aspect.

“I’m mighty glad that’s done,” he said.

“If you’ll listen carefully, I think you’ll hear something later,” said Henry.

Henry was right.  In about half an hour they heard soft, shuffling noises beside the cabin, just under the window.

“They’re taking away the dead warriors,” said Henry.

“I don’t want to fire on them while they’re doing it,” said Paul.

“Nor I,” said Henry.  “We might reach ’em, but I’m glad they’re doing what they are.”

The slight, sliding noises continued for a little while, and then they heard only the light sweep of the rain.  On the roof it became a patter, and here and there a drop made its way between the boards and fell on the floor.  It was soothing to Paul after the excitement of those terrible moments, and he felt a queer, pleasant languor.  His eyes half closed, but his vague look fell on somber, dark spots on the floor, and the sight was repellent to him.  He went to the hearth, heaped up the whole of the embers and ashes, and sprinkled them carefully over the spots, which would have been red in the light, but which were black in the night and gloom of the cabin.  Henry watched him do it, but said nothing.  He understood Paul, and gave him his sympathy.