Then in as few words as possible he told her of the danger which hovered over them.
Hilda Selwood came of a good old colonial stock, and was not lacking in nerve. Still she would not have been a woman had she realised the frightful peril which threatened herself and her children without a shudder.
“We must do what we can, Renshaw,” she said. “Perhaps they will not attack us.”
“‘Perhaps’ is a sorry word to start campaigning upon. What we’ve got to do is to ensure them as warm a reception as possible if they do. My opinion is that they will, if only that they seem to have been watching the road. I believe they have ascertained by some means or other that Chris is away. What people have you on the place just now?”
“Very few. There’s Windvogel and old Jacob and Gomfana. That’s all.”
“Windvogel I don’t trust. Shouldn’t wonder, indeed, if the yellow scoundrel was in league with them. Old Jacob has more than one foot in the grave—he’s no good. But Gomfana, though he couldn’t hit a haystack with a gun, might make useful play with a chopper if it came to close quarters. And now, look here,” he went on, after a moment’s hesitation; “the situation may be desperate. These seven cut-throats are fighting with a noose round their necks. Every one of their lives is forfeited, and they are all well armed. Now, is there no suggestion you can make towards strengthening the garrison?”
“Why, of course. Marian and I both know how to shoot. That makes three of us. And then we are under cover.”
“Well spoken. But I can improve on that idea—if you can bring yourself to agree. Little chaps as they are, Fred and Basil are better shots than either of you, and game to the core.”
Hilda Selwood gave a gasp. Her two little ones! Why, they were mere babies but yesterday! And now she was to be called upon to sacrifice them—to expose them to the peril of a desperate conflict which would fully tax the courage of grown men.
“I’d rather not, if it could possibly be avoided,” she said, at last.