“I don’t feel as if I could raise an arm,” said Oliver, “but I’ll have a try.”
“So will I. It’s of no use to lie here fancying one has been wounded by poisoned arrows. I shall think of nothing but paying those fellows out. The guns are there on that locker.”
“And the cartridge bags with them,” said Oliver.
“Then here goes.”
“Hist!”
“What is it?” whispered back Panton.
“Some one is trying that window.”
There was no mistake about the matter, for the grating as of a great piece of wood was heard, followed by a cracking sound like the point of a spear being inserted in a crevice so as to wrench open the dead-light.
The young men looked at each other, and Panton reached out his sound arm, setting his teeth hard as he tried to master the agony he felt in his effort, and succeeded in grasping one gun.
The rest was easy: by its help he drew the other within reach—their own guns which had been thrown down there when they were brought into the cabin. In another minute he had the cartridge satchels as well, and pushed one and his gun to Oliver. They both examined the breeches to see that they were properly loaded, listening the while to the crackling, wrenching noise.