Morgan drew in his breath with a faint hiss.
“It’s moving—he’s moving,” he whispered; “crawling right along to get round to the back, I should say. And look, sir, look!—another of ’em.”
I just caught sight of the second figure, and then crept to the rough trap-door opening.
“Father,” I whispered, “come up here. Bring a gun.”
He was beneath the opening in a moment.
“Take hold of the gun,” he said. “Mind!—be careful”—and he passed the heavy weapon up to me.
The next moment he was up in the rough loft, and I pointed out the figures of the Indians.
I heard him too draw in his breath with a faint hiss, as he stretched out his hand for the gun, took it, softly passed the barrel out through the open window and took aim, while I stood suffering from a nervous thrill that was painful in the extreme, for I knew that when he fired it must mean death.
I involuntarily shrank away, waiting for the heavy report which seemed as if it would never come; and at last, unable to bear the suspense longer, I pressed forward again to look hesitatingly through the window, feeling that I might have to fire a gun myself before long.
All at once, as the suspense had grown unbearable, the barrel of the firelock made a low scraping noise, for my father was drawing it back.