Captain Pierre d'Antons' injury kept him indoors for ten days. During that time he saw nobody but Maggie Stone, Bernard Kingswell, and Ouenwa. Kingswell could not help feeling sorry for him, in spite of the enmity and distrust in his heart. D'Antons made no mention of how he came by his cut head to the young Englishman. He knew that the other knew—and sometimes he wondered how much. He accepted such attentions at Kingswell's hand as any fair-hearted man will make to any invalid, with what seemed gratitude and humility. But under the mask his blood was raging. If his hand trembled while receiving a glass of water from the Englishman, it was as much from the effort of restraining an outburst of hate as from weakness. Kingswell, clear-sighted by now, suspected the real state of the other's feelings.

During the days of D'Antons' inactivity, the Beothics made three night attacks on the fort. Two were repetitions of the one-man demonstrations of cunning, in which Clotworthy had met his death and young Trigget had received the cut on his arm. Happily both had failed. The third was an attack in force, made in that darkest hour just before the first stirrings of dawn. By good fortune, both William Trigget and Kingswell were dressed and about at the time of the first alarm. They both ran to the gun-platform, and there found Tom Bent desperately engaged with two savages, who had scaled the stockade over the massed shoulders of their fellows. The intruders were speedily hurled backward, they and a portion of the breastworks falling on the devoted heads below. At the moment, Dame Trigget puffed valiantly up the ladder and handed a torch to her husband. In a second the coverings were pulled from the guns. The muzzles of the little weapons were declined as far as they would go, and the fuses were ignited. Comprehending the trend of affairs, some of the enemy let fly their arrows at the little group in the torch's illumination. Both William Trigget and Tom Bent were hit, and fell to their knees. In the same instant of time the guns belched their flame and screaming missiles into the wavering mass of savages. A yell of terror and pain, made up of many individual cries, followed the reports of the guns like an echo.

But along the opposite stockade, things were not going so well for the settlers. About a dozen of the enemy had gained foothold on the roof of the storehouse, and from there had jumped into the yard, driving Peter Harding before them. They were immediately engaged by the Donnellys. Torches and lanterns glowed and swung about the edges of the conflict. Matters were looking serious for the defenders (who by that time were joined by Sir Ralph, Ouenwa, and the redoubtable Maggie Stone) when the discharge of artillery across the square turned the courage of the attackers to water, and their victory to defeat. Six of them were cut down while endeavouring to escape by way of the ladder against the wall of the storehouse. The rest got away, but none of them unscathed. With that the fight ended, though the defenders kept to their posts until broad daylight.

In the morning it was discovered that one of the six warriors who remained within the fort was still alive. Sir Ralph had him carried to D'Antons' cabin, and his wounds attended to. They were not of a serious nature. Black Feather, who was a convalescent by now, recognized a bitter enemy in the disabled captive. He was for despatching him straightway, recalling the bitter days of his slavery and the loss of wife and children. He was dragged away by Kingswell, and Ouenwa remonstrated with him at some length.

The little garrison had suffered in the brief engagement. William Trigget had halted three arrows with his big body. Only one had reached the flesh, thanks to his thick garments of wool and hide; but that one had cut deep into the muscles of his chest, and the others had bruised his ribs. Tom Bent was more seriously injured, with a gaping slash in the side of his neck. Young Peter Harding was laid on his back with a cracked rib, dealt him by a stone-headed axe, and seemed in a fair way to remain on the sick-list for some time to come.

The dead Beothics were carried out and buried in a shallow grave near the honest Clotworthy's desolate resting-place.

It was evident, from the smoke above the woods, that the enemy were still maintaining the siege, and at even closer range than before. The continual sight of that evidence of their presence, and the idleness due to confinement within a few hundred yards of the stockade, began to tell on the spirits of the settlers. It became a matter of difficulty to forget the wounded men in such restricted quarters. Bandages and salves, gruels and plasters, seemed to pervade every corner. Every one who was not an invalid was a nurse. In addition, the lack of fresh meat was beginning to be felt. Sir Ralph, who had seemed more cheerful just after his affair with D'Antons, was fallen back on his black moods. Mistress Beatrix's cheeks and eyes were losing something of their radiance, though she carried herself bravely and cheerfully.

Master Kingswell, who had a knack with bandages and such, found his time fully occupied. He inspected all the wounded twice a day, and he and Ouenwa took entire charge of D'Antons and the captured Beothic. His only recreation was a few hours of each afternoon or evening spent with the Westleighs. He and the baronet fenced, if the visit happened to be paid during the day; if in the evening, they sometimes played chess, or, better still, the baronet paced the room in uneasy meditation, and the youth and the maiden bent their young heads above the pieces of carved ivory.

Behind the girl's laughter and hospitality, Kingswell detected an aloofness toward him that had not been noticeable during the first days of their acquaintance. The thing was very fine—so fine that it was scarcely a matter of attitude or manner. One of duller perception would have missed it altogether. It was in no wise a physical aloofness, save in a certain reservation in the glance of the eye and the softer notes of the voice. But it worried the young man. He felt that he had failed in something—that she had set a standard for him, and that he had not risen to it. With native shrewdness, he suspected that she considered him crude and conceited. He knew that she considered him brave, and that she admired his courage; but he was equally sure that his prowess with the singlesticks against Trigget, and his increasing dexterity with the rapier, did not tell in his favour in her eyes. "Women are evidently as unreasonable as the poets depict them," he decided, and tried to acquire a modest demeanour. But the ability to do so had not been born in him, and no matter how low and self-abasing his speech, pride shone in his clear eyes and self-confidence was in the carriage of head and shoulders.

The baronet's attitude toward Master Kingswell became more affectionate every day. He recognized the sterling qualities in the youth,—the honesty, courage, and loyalty, as well as the physical and mental gifts of quick eye and wrist and clear brain. He derived no little comfort from his presence in the fort. He felt that in this golden-haired son of the Bristol merchant-knight his daughter had a second guardian. He knew that the Kingswell blood, though not noble by the rating of the College of Heralds, was to be depended on as surely as any in England. In happier times he had known and enjoyed a certain amount of familiarity with the elder Kingswell, and had found the broad-minded merchant's heart as sound as his self-imported wines. He remembered the wife, too, as a person of distinction and kindliness.

For his own part, the baronet realized more surely, with the passing of each narrow day, that life offered no further allurement to him. The slight exhilaration that had followed the defiance and defeat of D'Antons was of no more lasting a quality than the flavour of a vintage. The Frenchman was harmless, poor devil, like the rest of them; and in as fair a way as himself to leave his bones in the wilderness. Yes, he felt a twinge of pity for him! He could understand that, to an adventurer like D'Antons, unrequited love was the very devil,—worse, perhaps, than the fever of the gaming-table. But of course he felt no regret for having put an end (as he believed) to the fellow's audacious suit. His regret—if, indeed, he entertained any concerning so recent an event in his career—was that he had not pricked the buccaneer's bubble of false power months before—despite the promise he had made him. But as things had turned out,—as Time had dealt the cards, to use his own words,—the other's behaviour had allowed him to strike without too flagrant a breach of his word of honour. He was thankful for that.