“No; Murray Frank not fire yet,” whispered the black, in eager tones. “Wait plenty more Huggins man come. Yes,” he whispered, as a burst of voices as of many of the enemy hurrying up could be heard; and then above all came the strangely familiar tones of one who had been leading the newly-arrived party, and Murray started violently as there fell upon his ear in fierce adjuration—
“Wall, why are you waiting? In with you, curse you, and finish them off!”
The black started back to retreat into the house, but Murray extended his left hand and caught him by the shoulder.
“Where are you going?” he whispered.
“Run!” was the reply. “Massa Huggin.”
“Not yet,” whispered Murray. “Is it time now?”
The lad’s calm words had the effect of steadying the trembling black as they listened, and his voice was no longer the same as he said firmly now—
“Yes, massa. Time now. Fire!”
Murray thrust the black from him as he snatched the light from behind the door, took a couple of steps towards the enemy, and stooped down with the candle burning blue and seeming to become extinct as the lad touched the path. Then there was a bright flash as the powder caught, sputtered and began to run, lighting up the figure of the midshipman in the act of dashing in through the doorway, a score of bullets rattling after him in answer to an order; and then the door closed with a heavy bang.
Darkness within and a blaze of light without, where the voice of the Yankee could be heard shouting orders which rose above the buzzing fluttering noise of the running train.