The besieged stood in line, facing the jungle, with the women and children behind. Suddenly, wild shrieks from them announced danger. Two of the dacoits had crept around, under cover of the long grass, crawling like snakes close to the ground, and were prepared to leap into the fence, dahs in hand.
With one bound, Kirke sprang to that side with clubbed gun, and struck one man down from a swinging blow on the head. Ralph was at his side in the same instant, with a native spear in his hand, the first weapon which he could catch up. One of the women, who was engaged in cooking the supper, flung the pot of boiling rice at the intruders in the same moment of time. It hit another fellow right in his face, and the scalding contents ran down all his naked body, at which he uttered a demoniacal howl of pain.
"Bravo, Miss Pretty!" called out Kirke. "Have at them! There's a plucky girl."
Were it not for the women, who came gallantly to the aid of the men, the fight would have been a short and hopeless one, for the dacoits evidently had been reinforced in numbers. They assailed the little camp on all sides,—there was no spot from which a terrible face did not gleam and disappear. They tore at the defences with their hands,—they tugged at the stakes with feet and teeth,—they hurled darts, they fired shots,—now from this side, now from that. The villagers fought like wild animals,—both they and the dacoits uttering fierce yells and shrieks; only the two young Englishmen set their teeth, and silently struggled, side by side, with their doom. One—two dacoits more fell dead, but the rest were fiercer than ever.
The ammunition was exhausted, their strength failing them, it was but desperation which enabled them to maintain the combat, but they fought on and on.
Daylight broke at last; the short night was over, and the assailants retreated once more beneath the cover of the jungle. Kirke reckoned up his men.
Two of them were wounded seriously, one by a cut on the head from a dah, the other by a gun-shot in the chest. One of the girls was thrust through the shoulder by a spear, and a child had been killed.
All the powder was gone, but there were spears, dahs, and clubs in sufficient quantity,—also food,—and there were a good many musket balls still left.
Moung Shway Poh had found a shelter beneath the thickest part of the stockade, where he was found, squatted on his heels, under the shade of the strongest umbrella that had been saved.
"You old coward!" cried Kirke. "I missed you in the night, and wasted compassion upon you, fearing you were wounded or killed. Have you been hiding there all this time, while we others have been fighting for you?"