“Great Scott!” exclaimed Cavendish, excitedly.  “Every shot counted.  Here, load up quick.  They’ll try the window next.  Get down!”

The warning was not an instant too soon, the hasty volley largely thudding harmlessly into the thick mattress, although a bullet or two sang past and found billets in the logs behind.  Cavendish returned the fire, shooting blindly into the smoke, but the girl only lifted her head, staring intently into the smother, until the cloud floated away through the door.  The attackers had again vanished, all semblance of them, except those two motionless bodies.

She had not before been conscious of any feeling; all she had done had been automatic, as though under compulsion; but now she felt strangely sick, and faint.  An unutterable horror seized her and her hands gripped the edge of the bed to keep her erect.  She could seem to see nothing but the ghastly face of that dead man hanging over the stool, and she closed her eyes.  Yet this reaction was only momentary.  She had fired in defence; in a struggle for the preservation of life and honour.  Under spur of this thought she once more gained control.

But how still it was!  Even the sound of voices had ceased; and out through the open door there was no sign of movement.  The light seemed dimmer, also, as though the sun had sunk below the opposite cliffs, and night was slowly descending upon the valley.  What could be happening out there?  Were those men planning some new attempt?  Or had they decided it was better to wait for a larger force?  The silence and uncertainty were harder to combat than the violence of assault; she struggled to refrain from screaming.  Cavendish never moved, his gun flung forward across the improvised barricade, the very grip of his hand proving the intensity of nervous strain.  Something caused him to glance toward her.

“Looks as though they had enough of it,” he said grimly, “and have decided to starve us out.”

“Oh, do you think so?  I heard a noise then.”

He heard it also, his glance returning instantly to the front, his form stiffening into preparation.  For a moment neither could determine the meaning of the sounds.  Then he cocked his gun, the sharp click echoing almost loudly in the stillness.

“Trying the window this time,” he murmured, “Do you hear that?  Be ready.”

Nothing happened; even the slight noise in the outer room ceased; there was not a sound except their own breathing.  The two knelt motionless, peering over the edge of the bed into the dim twilight, seeing nothing, each with finger on trigger—­tense, expectant.  Then, without warning, the flying figure of a man leaped across the doorway into the security of the opposite wall.  It was done so quickly neither fired, but Cavendish licked his parched lips with a dry tongue.

“I’ll get the next one who tries that trick,” he muttered, “It will be easier than partridge shooting.”