“Come and take them if you can—si vous osez,” he added in French.
There was no more delay. A couple of men were ordered to the front with iron bars, and they began to batter the door heavily, but without any further effect than to chip off splinters and make dints.
The men were called off, the rest standing ready to fire at anyone who should show a face at the windows, but we gave them no opportunity, for my father whispered:
“They are sixty. We are only just over a dozen. Wait, men, wait.”
“What are they doing, Big?” I whispered to my companion, for he was in a better post for observations than myself.
“I can’t quite see,” he whispered back. “They’ve got a bag of something, and they’re bringing it to the door.”
I looked out quickly.
“Powder!” I exclaimed, and then I ran to the head of the stairs and called down to my father: “They are going to blow in the door with powder.”
“Good!” said my father coolly, and issuing an order or two he drew all his men together into the back room. “Stay where you are, Sep,” he whispered; “the explosion will not touch you, only, if we are hard pressed afterwards, come down with your men and take the enemy in the rear.”
I felt my heart swell with pride at being treated like this, and the nervous sensation of dread grew less.