The canoes were drawing in upon the shore, very cautiously, deliberately, grimly, in a great half-moon, and more of them were arriving at every moment.
I leaped from the porch and sped down beside the girl.
"Come," I cried, "you—we—can do nothing for him."
"Is it you?" she said. "You—I—go back!"
"Come," I cried hoarsely.
"Don't leave him here."
I bent over and lifted the body, and staggering under its weight, carried it up into the house and laid it on the couch in the big front room.
All this time the noise within and without the mission was deafening. The blacks on the river were howling with fury, and those ashore, who had not already fled to the woods, were wailing in grief and terror. Gleazen and Arnold Lamont had joined forces to organize a defense, the one raving at the arrant cowards who were fleeing from first sight of an enemy, while the other turned the place upside down in search of arms. And still the blacks on the river held off, probably for fear of firearms, though there were indications that as their numbers grew, they were screwing up their courage to decisive action.
The girl, suddenly realizing the object of Arnold's search, said quietly, "There are no weapons."