“Good, Stan!” shouted Uncle Jeff in his nephew’s ear. “I saw you bring down the fellow who flung that wretched thing. Quick, boy! Fire faster.—Fire, all of you; they’re coming on more and more. How many are there of the wretches?”
“I’m firing as fast as I can, uncle,” cried Stan; “but I’m afraid that they’re doing something round at the back.”
“Then don’t be afraid—don’t be afraid of anything,” growled Uncle Jeff. “We don’t want imagination to help the real. That is bad enough.—Hah! That has settled you, my bloodthirsty scoundrel!” he growled as he reached out and shot a man down. But a spear came darting up and scratched the side of his face, making him utter an angry snarl, while his eyes lit up with rage as he glared through a loophole at the swarming enemy raging about beneath as if nothing but the defenders’ blood would suffice.
“Not going to be too much for us, are they?” thought Stan, whose blood was well up; but a slight feeling of dread attacked him as to their future. For the enemy seemed, in spite of their losses, by no means quelled, only spurred on to fresh attacks, which grew fiercer as the moments glided by.
“Eh? What?” cried Uncle Jeff suddenly, as a blue-frocked, particularly clean and tidy-looking individual forced his way amongst the powder-and-pitch-smoke blackened party of four defending Stan’s window.
“You here, Wing?” cried Stan, turning from taking aim, and feeling a hand grasp his arm.
“Come, quick!” cried the Chinaman, with a highly pitched squeak. “Pilate got in bottom. Plenty lot come ’long fast; cuttee allee float.”
“Quick, all!” roared Blunt at that moment. “The stairs—the stairs!”
A rush was made towards the opening, and Uncle Jeff sprang to the head of the broad stairs, just in time to bring his rifle-butt down on the head of a big Chinaman who, holding a great sword in both hands, was reaching forward to cut under the arms of Blunt, who was swinging his piece round, clubbed, to beat back three or four of the enemy who were crowding up.