The heaps of brush outside the palisades burned with a long-drawn roaring, like the note of a steady wind. It was a terrifying sound. The glare of the conflagration lit the interior of the fort, staining the trampled snow of the yard to an awful hue, staining the faces of the desperate settlers as if with foreshadowing of blood, and painting the walls of the cabins as if for a carnival. The platform upon which the guns stood was a mass of flame before any use could be made of the pieces. The breastwork of faggots burned with leapings and roarings, flinging orange and crimson showers to the black dome above. The savages skirmished behind the girdle of flames, like imps along the blood-coloured snow. The settlers discharged their muskets through the singed loopholes, firing low, and taking the chances with heroic fortitude. Sir Ralph and Bernard Kingswell were here and there, with their swords in their hands and encouragement in speech and bearing. Both knew that this engagement would be a fight to the finish; and both felt reasonably sure that a shrewder and braver commander than Panounia was against them.

The ammunition was carried from the storehouse to the shed over the well, for the fire was already crackling against the log walls of the buildings. Suddenly a sharp report and a high shower of sparks and burning fragments broke from the gun-platform; and, for the moment, the warriors were scattered from that side. One of the cannon had exploded. That corner of the stockade immediately fell and settled to the snow. Next instant the second gun was fired by the flames. It sent its whole charge into the uncertain Beothics, scattering them to cover in yelling disorder. At that the Englishmen cheered, and set about fighting back the encroaching flames.

Inspiration, or a font of courage to be drawn upon at need, must have dwelt behind the shelter of the spruces; for within a very few minutes of the retreat, all the warriors, save the wounded, were about the fort again. Kingswell took note of it, and suspected the inspiration to be nothing else than Pierre d'Antons' insinuating presence and dazzling smile. A spur, too, he suspected—the spur of the mongrel Frenchman's evil sneer and black temper. He knew enough of the aboriginal character to feel that it would prove but a plaything for such a personality as the buccaneer's. He looked across the glowing, smoking breach in the fortifications with hard eyes. He voiced his desire to have the fellow by the throat, or at the point of his sword, in tones that rang like a curse.

Suddenly Kingswell left his post and ran to the well-house.

He knew where the Pelican's powder lay among the stores, done up in five canvas bags of about twelve pounds each. With two of these under his cloak, he returned to his place a few paces from the subsiding red barrier that still held the enemy from the interior of the fort. By this time the back of Trigget's cabin was smouldering. The roofs of the cabins, deep with snow, were safe; but the rear walls were all in a fair way of being ignited by the crackling brushwood, which the warriors of Panounia diligently piled against them.

Kingswell left the protection of the rest of the square to Sir Ralph, William Trigget, and all the men of the garrison save Tom Bent. The old boatswain was, by this time, a very active convalescent. Kingswell whispered a word or two in his ear. They kept a sharp lookout across the wreckage of the fallen corner of the stockade. They saw a party of the enemy gather ominously close to the glowing edge of the breach. Kingswell passed one of the bags of powder to his companion. "When I give the word," he said.

Suddenly the black knot of warriors dashed into the obstruction, brandishing spears and clubs, and screaming like maniacs. Kingswell uttered a low, quick cry, tossed his bag of powder into the glowing coals under the feet of the enemy, and ran for the shelter of the well-house at top speed. Tom Bent followed his movements on the instant. Together they reached the narrow shelter; and, before they could turn about, the air shook and reeled, as if a bolt of wind had broken upon them, a blinding flash seemed to consume the whole night, and a puffing, thumping report stunned their ears. They stumbled against the sides of the shed, clawed desperately, and fell to the ground.

When Bernard Kingswell and the trusty boatswain regained their senses (which had left them for only a few seconds), they crawled from the well-house and stared about them. The square was not so bright as it had been, and, save for a few huddled shapes on the snow, was empty. By the shouting and mixed tumult, they knew that the fighting was now farther away—that the settlers had sallied forth on the offensive. They could not understand such recklessness; but they decided, without hesitation, to take the risk. They ran to the now black gap in the palisades. Fire, coals, wreckage, and even the snow had been hurled and blown broadcast. They crossed the torn ground and headed for the tumult in the fitfully illuminated spaces beyond. Native war-whoops and English shouts mixed and clashed in the frosty air. On the very edge of the shifting conflict, the old sailor clutched his master's arm. "Hark!" he cried. "D'ye hear that now? It be the yell o' that young Ouenwa, sir, or ye can call me a Dutcher!"

At the same moment, before Kingswell could reply to Bent's statement, a club, thrown by a retreating warrior, caught the gentleman on the side of the head and felled him like a thing of wood. He moaned, as he toppled over. Then he lay still on the ruddy snow.

Beatrix had a dozen candles alight in the living-room of the baronet's cabin. Word had reached her that Ouenwa and Black Feather had arrived in time to take advantage of the rebuff dealt the enemy by the explosions of the bags of powder. When victory had seemed to be hopelessly in the hands of the determined savages, Ouenwa and his followers, though spent from their journey, had made a timely and successful rear attack.

The girl was radiant. She moved up and down the room, eagerly awaiting the return of Bernard Kingswell. She questioned herself as to that, and laughed joyously. Yes, it was Bernard, beyond peradventure, whom heart, hands, and lips longed to recover and reward. A month ago, a week ago, it would have been her father—even a night ago he would have shared, equally with the lover, in her sweet and eager concern. But now she sped from hearth to door, and peered out into the blackness, with no thought of any of those brave fellows save the lad of Bristol.

The burning brush had all been trampled out, and the fires in the walls and stockade had been quenched with water. The little square was dark, save for the subdued fingers of light from windows and doors. Beatrix peered from the open door, regardless of the cold. She was outlined black against the warm radiance inside the room. Her silken garments clung about her, pressed gently by a breath of wind. She rested a hand on either upright of the doorway, and leaned forward as if, at a whim, she would fly out from the threshold. Presently shadowy figures took shape in the gloom, and she heard her father's voice, and William Trigget's, and the high pipe of Ouenwa. But she caught no sound of Bernard Kingswell's clear tones. A sudden fear caught her, and she stepped out upon the trampled snow and called to Sir Ralph. In a moment he was at her side, and had an arm about her.

"Sweeting," he said, "you must stay within for a little. The night is bitterly cold, and—"

"But where is Bernard?" she whispered, staring past him.

"He is with the others," replied the baronet,—"with Ouenwa and his brave fellows, and the dauntless Trigget."

He spoke quickly and uneasily, and led her back to the cabin at the same time. He closed the door, and laid a wet sword across a stool.

"What is it?" she cried, facing him, with wide eyes and bloodless cheeks. "Tell me! Tell me!"

"The lad is hurt," admitted Sir Ralph.

"Hurt?" repeated the girl, vaguely. "Hurt? How should he be hurt?"

She shivered, and gripped her hand desperately. Could it be that the High God had been deaf to her prayers?

Sir Ralph's face went as pale as hers; for all he knew of Kingswell's condition was that he still breathed, and that his hat had saved his head from being cut. Whether the skull was broken or not, he did not know. He braced himself, and smiled.

"My dear," he said, "he is not seriously hurt, so do not stand like that—for God's sake!"

At the last words his voice lost its note of composure, and broke shrilly. He caught her to him. "Rip me," he cried, "but if you act so when he is simply knocked over, what will you do if he ever gets a real wound!"

The girl was comforted. Tears sprang to her eyes, and the blood returned to her cheeks. She clung to the baronet and sobbed against his shoulder. Presently she looked up.

"Take me to him," she begged, "or bring him here."

"So you love this Bernard Kingswell?" inquired her father, looking steadily into her face.

Her gleaming eyes did not waver from his gaze. "Yes," she replied, quietly.

The man turned away, took his blood-wet sword from the stool, eyed it dully, and leaned it against the wall. He was trying to imagine what the lad's death would mean to his daughter's future; but he could only see that it would mean a few more years for himself. He started guiltily, and returned to his daughter. His face was desperately grim.

"Wait for me," he said. "I'll see how the lad is doing now; and shall return immediately."

Sir Ralph crossed to the cottage that had been built for D'Antons, and which had passed on to Kingswell. He opened the door softly and stepped within. He found the wounded gentleman lying prone on his couch, half-undressed, and with bandaged head. Ouenwa, gaunt and blood-stained, was beside the still figure.

"He opened his eyes," whispered the boy; "but see, he has closed them again. His spirit waits at the spreading of the trails."

Sir Ralph bent down and examined the linen dressings on Kingswell's head. They were exceedingly well arranged. He saw that the hair had been cut away from the place of the wound.

"Your work, Ouenwa?" he inquired.

The boy nodded. The baronet felt his friend's pulse.

"It beats strong," he said. "The heart seems sure enough of the path to take."

Ouenwa's face lighted quickly. "He has chosen," he said, gravely. "He has seen the hunting-grounds shining beyond the west, but the beauty of them has not lured him along that trail."

The baronet smiled quickly into the Beothic's eyes. "You are a brave lad, and we are deep in debt to you," he exclaimed. "Your bravery and wit have saved the fort and all our lives. Watch your friend a few minutes longer; I but go to bring another nurse to help you. Then you may sleep."