“No, my boy; it is impossible. We must fight to the last.”
“Yes,” said Stan quietly; “of course it’s impossible. I should only jump into a crowd and be hacked to pieces. I’d rather stay here.”
Uncle Jeff was silent, but he lowered one hand to squeeze his nephew’s.
“Bless you, my boy!” he said hoarsely. “It’s very hard, but there’s nothing for it unless help comes.”
“And no help will come that I can see,” panted Blunt, who was reeling with weakness.
“Ah-h-h! Takee ca’e!” shrieked Wing, bringing down his big knife with all his might, as, regardless of flame and smoke rising with stifling fumes through the square opening of the stairs, some half-dozen of the enemy made a rush to get at the defenders. And once more a desperate struggle ensued, which was repeated till the suffocating wreaths were too much even for the much-diminished attacking party, who now drew back to make way for a strong force of their companions. These rushed to the foot of the stairs to hurl about a dozen of the flaming missiles up at the defenders, and then dashed away again, just in time to escape a furious burst of flame which indicated that the fire was beginning to rage below; in fact, within five minutes the staircase was perfectly impassable, the flames roaring up being augmented with fresh fuel by the enemy, who hurled in pot after pot.
“No escape there, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff as they drew back from the scorching heat.
“But no more attack, uncle,” replied Stan. “We are safe from that.”
“And safe to be burned out.”
“Yes,” said Blunt bitterly; “but we can’t die like this.—Come, my lads, back to the windows, and let us make the wretches feel that they will have to go on paying for our lives to the last.”