"Why, that blamed bullet was hot, and the Moro made me swallow it! It was so hot that it burned all the way down! Got any ice, Sarge?"
A burst came from a dozen distant rifles at once. Bullets tore through the air around Lieutenant Prescott as he stood, still with his field glass to his eyes. Looking around, however, he saw Hal standing, and commanded severely:
"If you're through with your work, Sergeant Overton, lie down. Ready, men, for just one volley. Load; aim—at the front timber line of that grove. Fire!"
Hardly had the crashing volley ripped out when again the young officer's voice was heard:
"Rise, forward, charge!"
This time the line moved with a yell, the two men who carried Danes yelling as loudly as the rest.
"Halt! Lie down!"
They were within two hundred yards of the Seaforth house now. The front door of that building had been thrown open, though no one appeared as yet in the doorway.
It began to look as though the Moros had withdrawn, or else were waiting for something, for no shots came from the enemy.
Again, at command, the detachment rose and rushed forward, this time without cheering.