“No: not hurt,” shouted Norman. “Spear came through the loophole, passed through my shirt and under my arm.”
“Thrust or thrown?” cried Uncle Jack.
“Thrown,” was the reply, as the hissing of wads driving out confined air, and the thudding of ramrods were heard.
“They know Shanter isn’t here,” whispered Rifle, as he finished his loading. “They’ve killed him, and that’s what makes them so fierce.”
He seemed to be right, for the defenders passed a cruel night; but morning dawned, and the enemy had not gained a single advantage more than before.
That morning was devoted to nailing planks all over the roof, for fortunately they were plentiful. Others were nailed across the doors, back and front, just leaving room for people to creep in and out; and this being done, the captain took the glass once more to scour their surroundings; while Sam German and the boys fetched water and wood, fulfilling Shanter’s duties, till an ejaculation from the captain made them look up.
“The wretches! They have speared or driven off all the horses, boys; we must get a sheep killed for provender, or we may not have another chance. There, work and get done. You must all have some rest before night.”
Norman was just going into the house as the captain spoke these words, and the boy turned away from the door to get round to the side, where he could be alone. He had been about to join his mother and the girls, but his father’s words brought a despairing feeling upon him, and he dared not meet them for fear they should read his thoughts.
“What’s the matter, Man?” said a voice behind him. “Ill?”
It was Rifle who spoke, and Norman turned so ghastly a face to him that the boy was shocked.