by the look in her face when they had been confronted by great danger, and as his fingers worked swiftly in refilling the magazine of his rifle he saw it there again.  It was not fear, even now.  It was a more wonderful thing than that.  Her wide-open eyes glowed with a strange, dark luster; in the center of each of her cheeks was a vivid spot of color, and her lips were parted slightly, so that he caught the faintest gleam of her teeth.  Wonderful as a fragile flower she stood there with her eyes upon him, her splendid courage and her faith in him flaming within her like a fire.

And then he heard Anderson’s voice: 

“They’re behind the ridge.  We got eight of them.”

In half a dozen places Philip had seen where bullets had bored the way through the cabin, and leaning his gun against the wall, he sprang to Celie and almost carried her behind the bunk that was built against the logs.

“You must stay here,” he cried.  “Do you understand!  Here!”

She nodded, and smiled.  It was a wonderful smile—­a flash of tenderness telling him that she knew what he was saying, and that she would obey him.  She made no effort to detain him with her hands, but in that moment—­if life had been the forfeit—­Philip would have stolen the precious time in which to take her in his arms.  For a space he held her close to him, his lips crushed to hers, and faced the wall again with the throb of her soft breast still beating against his heart.  He noticed Armin standing near the door, his hand resting on a huge club which, in turn, rested on the floor.  Calmly he was waiting for the final rush.  Olaf was peering through the gun-hole again.  And then came what he had expected—­a rattle of fire from the snow-ridge.  The pit-pit-pit of bullets rained against the cabin in a dull tattoo.  Through the door came a bullet, sending a splinter close to Armin’s face.  Almost in the same instant a second followed it, and a third came through the crevice so close to Philip that he felt the hissing breath of it in his face.  One of the dogs emitted a wailing howl and flopped among its comrades in uncanny convulsions.

Olaf staggered back, and faced Philip.  There was no trace of the fighting grin in his face now.  It was set like an iron mask.

“Get down!” he shouted.  “Do you hear, get down!” He dropped on his knees, crying out the warning to Armin in the other’s language.  “They’ve got enough guns to make a sieve of this kennel if their ammunition holds out—­and the lower logs are heaviest.  Flatten yourself out until they stop firing, with your feet toward ’em, like this,” and he stretched himself out on the floor, parallel with the direction of fire.