“We are in face of the enemy,” continued Captain Smithers. “Take your rifle again, and help to defend the place. You had better die by the spear of a Malay. Go to the guard-room now; and mind, if any words pass between you and Private Sim—”
“Quick, sir, the alarm!” cried Gray, pointing out beneath the stars. “The enemy!”
“Fire, sentry!” cried Captain Smithers; and the report of a rifle rang out on the still night air, for the Malays were advancing in force.
Fresh shots were fired on all sides as the men turned out, and were at their various places in a very few moments, the wisdom of the captain’s commands being manifest; and as he saw Private Gray go down on one knee and begin firing, with careful aim, at the advancing enemy,—“He’s no traitor,” he muttered; “and I never doubted him at heart.”
He had no time for further thought, for the attack had become general, and the Malays seemed furious, striving hard to gain an entry, but always encountering one or two bayonets at every point, till, after half an hour’s fierce struggle, they drew back, leaving a number of dead and wounded around the place.
The defenders of the little fort drew breath at this, and as the firing ceased, the major’s wife, with Rachel Linton and her cousin, came round, first with refreshments for the exhausted men, and, as soon as they were distributed, began to bandage those who were wounded.
It was while they were busy over this task, that in the darkness Rachel Linton came upon a man leaning against the breast-work, gazing attentively out at the position of the enemy.
“Are you wounded?” she asked; and at her words Private Gray started round and faced her.
“Only slightly,” he said, “in body—but deeply in spirit.”
“Let me bind your wound,” said Rachel Linton, hoarsely, and her voice trembled as she spoke.