But Du Lhut shook his head at the suggestion. "It is not in a Redskin to waste powder," said he. "It is a deal too precious for them to do that. Ah, listen to that!"
The yellings and screechings had begun again, but there was a wilder, madder ring in their shrillness, and they were mingled with snatches of song and bursts of laughter.
"Ha! It is the brandy casks which they have opened," cried Du Lhut. "They were bad before, but they will be fiends out of hell now."
As he spoke there came another burst of whoops, and high above them a voice calling for mercy. With horror in their eyes the survivors glanced from one to the other. A heavy smell of burning flesh rose from below, and still that dreadful voice shrieking and pleading. Then slowly it quavered away and was silent forever.
"Who was it?" whispered De Catinat, his blood running cold in his veins.
"It was Jean Corbeil, I think."
"May God rest his soul! His troubles are over. Would that we were as peaceful as he! Ah, shoot him! Shoot!"
A man had suddenly sprung out at the foot of the stair and had swung his arm as though throwing something. It was the Flemish Bastard. Amos Green's musket flashed, but the savage had sprung back again as rapidly as he appeared. Something splashed down amongst them and rolled across the floor in the lamp-light.
"Down! Down! It is a bomb!" cried De Catinat
But it lay at Du Lhut's feet, and he had seen it clearly. He took a cloth from the table and dropped it over it.