She entered the house.  An anxious minute or two passed.  The Indians still had not stirred.  The eyes of the garrison were fixed with feverish anxiety on the door of that small hut.  Then they were relieved by the reappearance of the devoted girl, now clasping the precious keg of powder in her arms.

It was no time now to walk.  As rapidly as she could run, with the weight in her arms, she sped over the open space.  Speed was needed.  The Indians had suddenly come to a realizing sense of the woman’s purpose, and a volley of bullets swept the space over which she fled.

Not one touched her.  In a minute she had reached the fort.  A shout of enthusiastic welcome went up.  As the gate closed behind her, and she let fall the valuable prize from her unnerved arms, every hand was stretched to grasp hers, and a chorus of praise and congratulation filled the air.

“We have a heroine among us; we will all be heroes, and conquer or die,” was the universal thought.

It was a true one; Elizabeth Zane’s was one of those rare souls which seem sent on earth to make man proud of his race.

At half-past two the assailants returned to the attack, availing themselves, as before, of the cover of the huts.  After a period spent in musketry, they made an assault in force on the gate of the fort.  They were met by the concentrated fire of the garrison.  Six of them fell.  The others fled back to their shelter.

Until dark the fusillade continued.  After darkness had fallen the assailants tried a new device.  Lacking artillery, they attempted to convert a hollow maple log into a cannon.  They bound this as firmly as possible with chains, then, with a ludicrous ignorance of what they were about, they loaded it to its muzzle with stones, pieces of iron, and other missiles.  This done, they conveyed the impromptu cannon to a point within sixty yards of the fort, and attempted to discharge it against the gates.

The result was what might have been anticipated.  The log burst into a thousand pieces, and sent splinters and projectiles hurtling among the curious crowd of dusky warriors.  Several of them were killed, others were wounded, but the gates remained unharmed.  This was more than the savages had counted on, and they ceased the assault for the night, no little discouraged by their lack of success.

Meanwhile tidings of what Girty and his horde were about had spread through the settlements, and relief parties were hastily formed.  At four o’clock in the morning fourteen men arrived, under command of Colonel Swearingen, and fought their way into the fort without losing a man.  At dawn a party of forty mounted men made their appearance, Major McCullough at their head.  The men managed to enter the fort in safety, but the gallant major, being unluckily separated from his band, was left alone outside.

His was a terribly critical situation.  Fortunately, the Indians knew him for one of their most daring and skillful enemies, and hated him intensely.  Fortunately, we say, for to that he owed his life.  They could easily have killed him, but not a man of them would fire.  Such a foeman must not die so easily; he must end his life in flame and torture.  Such was their unspoken argument, and they dashed after him with yells of exultation, satisfied that they had one of their chief foes safely in their hands.