Chapter Thirty One.
“A Traitor.”
No movement above him, no swish and horrible thud of a great two-handed sword, but a free course for the lad to spring from the last step into the long room, its blackened, pitch-besmirched floor covered with charred patches, and pieces of pitch, broken pots, and, above all, scores of empty cartridge-cases lying scattered about, and all lit up by the bright sunshine which streamed in through the open barricaded windows, Stan stopped short, with his follower crowding up and pressing upon him, pistol in hand, and gave a sharp look at every barricade to see if any of the enemy were crouching behind the holes in the window-opening; and, satisfied that the place was free, he waved one of the revolvers he held above his head and led off in a wild and excited—“Hip! hip! hip! hurrah!”
The shout was taken up and repeated with all the force of his companions’ lungs, while as the lad made a rush to the nearest window and gazed out on to the river, his lips parted for another cheer and his revolver-armed hand rose for a fresh wave.
But his lips closed again, his hand dropped to his side, and nothing but a hoarse, murmuring sound came forth in the words:
“I can’t—I can’t; I’m dead-beat now.”
“Hold up, my lad!” cried the lieutenant wildly as he sprang forward just in time to catch Stan as he reeled, and eased him down into a sitting position upon one of the bales, supporting the lad’s head against his breast. “Where are you hurt?”
“Nowhere,” said Stan in half-suffocated tones. “Done up, I suppose—too much for me. Water, please. Here,” he added feebly, “give the cowards one more cheer. No, no,” he added huskily and with more animation; “we’ve all done enough. Thank you!”
He took the tin of water dipped for him from one of the buckets brought up for extinguishing fire, drank with avidity, and then rose and staggered to the bucket-side, dropped upon his knees, and bent over to bathe his burning temples and smarting eyes.
“Hah!” he ejaculated as he rose and began drying his face with his blackened handkerchief. “It was very weak and cowardly, but I couldn’t help it. Sort of reaction, I suppose, after such a strain. I can’t help feeling a bit ashamed.”