“Yes,” said Uncle Jeff solemnly; “it has all been bravely done, and so we have done our duty. I suppose we could not make a dash from one window and fight our way to some boat?”
“No,” said Blunt as he shared the old window with them again, the men going back to their former stations—“no; it would be utter madness to try it. Ah I look below.”
“Yes; swarming with their spears,” said Uncle Jeff.
“To catch us as we spring out from the fire,” cried Stan. “Oh uncle, can we do nothing?”
“Nothing but kill a few more of the wretches before we go, my boy. I should be acting the part of a coward now if I did not own that we have reached the worst.”
“Oh uncle,” cried Stan passionately, “why did you come?”
“To help you, boy; and I am sorry I’ve failed. There! shake hands, my dear lad; life is always short, but this is too short for you.”
“Fire! fire!” cried Blunt passionately. “My rifle’s useless, and in another ten minutes we shall be too late.”
Stan looked wildly round as he raised his rifle to fire through the loophole again at the wretches waiting to catch them on bristling trident forks and spears, and it seemed a mockery, though the rifle-shots were fast pattering down, for him to think of destroying still more life when so near the termination of his own; but Blunt was his captain to the last, and his eye was on the sight, his finger on the trigger, and almost by instinct he was marking down one of the wretches right in front. Once more his nerves were tensely strained, and in another instant the enemy before him would have fallen, dangerously wounded if not dead, when there was a sudden shock, as if the fire had reached the little magazine and the cartridges had proved how they would act under the circumstances. The place literally rocked, there was a deafening roar, and the savage yelling of the attacking force was drowned.