Yard by yard they ran on, the men panting in their excitement.  Then came the screech of a bullet, and the shout on Philip’s lips froze into silence.  At first he thought the bullet had struck.  But it had gone a little high.  A second—­a third—­and the biting dust of a shattered rock spat into their faces.  With a strange thrill Philip saw that the fire was not coming from the windows.  Flashes of smoke came from low under the roof of the building.  Thoreau and his men were firing through loopholes!  John Adare and Jean saw this, and with loud cries they led their men fairly out into the open in an effort to draw the fire from Philip and the log-bearers.  Not a shot was turned in their direction.

A leaden hail enveloped Philip and his little band.  One of the log-bearers crumpled down without a moan.  Instantly his place was filled.  Twenty yards more and a second staggered out from the line, clutched a hand to his breast, and sank into the snow.  The last man filled his place.  They were only a hundred yards from the door now, but without a rock or a stump between them and death.  Another of the log-bearers rolled out from the line, and Philip sprang into the vacancy.  A fourth, a fifth—­and with a wild cry of horror John Adare called upon Philip to drop the log.

Nothing but the bullets could stop the little band now.  Seventy yards!  Sixty!  Only fifty more—­and the man ahead of Philip fell under his feet.  The remaining six staggered over him with the log.  And now up from behind them came Jean Jacques Croisset and his men, firing blindly at the loopholes, and enveloping the men along the log in those last thirty yards that meant safety from the fire above.  And behind him came John Adare, and from the south Kaskisoon and his Crees, a yelling, triumphant horde of avengers now at the very doors of the Devil’s Nest!

Philip staggered a step aside, winded, panting, a warm trickle of blood running over his face.  He heard the first thunder of the battering-ram against the door, the roaring voice of John Adare, and then a hand like ice smote his heart as he saw Jean huddled up in the snow.  In an instant he was on his knees at the half-breed’s side.  Jean was not dead.  But in his eyes was a fading light that struck Philip with terror.  A wan smile crept over his lips.  With his head in Philip’s arm, he whispered: 

“M’sieur, I am afraid I am struck through the lung.  I do not know, but I am afraid.”  His voice was strangely steady.  But in his eyes was that swiftly fading light!  “If should go—­you must know,” he went on, and Philip bent low to hear his words above the roar of voices and the crashing of the battering-ram.  “You must know—­to take my place in the fight for Josephine.  I think—­you have guessed it.  The baby was not Josephine’s.  It was Miriam’s!”

“Yes, yes, Jean!” cried Philip into the fading eyes.  “That was what I guessed!”

“Don’t blame her—­too much,” struggled Jean.  “She went down into a world she didn’t know.  Lang—­trapped her.  And Josephine, to save her, to save the baby, to save her father—­did as Munito the White Star did to save the Cree god.  You know.  You understand.  Lang followed—­to demand Josephine as the price of her mother.  M’sieur, you must kill him!  Go!”