For a moment he remained there framed and exposed as if painted upon a target, and—so close that they seemed to come together—two rifles spoke, and two bullets came whining into the house. One imbedded itself with a soggy thud in the squared logs of the rear wall but one, more viciously directed by the chances of its course, struck full in the center of the glass that covered the pictured face of Vivien Harrison and sent the portrait clattering and shattered to the floor.
In an instant Spurrier had leaped back, once more miraculously saved, and slammed the door, but while he was dropping the stanch bar into its sockets, a crash of glass and fresh roars from another direction told him that he was also being fired upon through the window. That meant that the house was surrounded.
“Who are they, Jack?” gasped the girl, shocked by that unwarned fusillade into momentary forgetfulness of everything, except that her lover was beset by enemies, and the man who was reaching for his rifle, and whose eyes had hardened into points of flint, shook his head.
“Whoever they are,” he answered, “they want me—only me—but it would be death for you to go out through the door.”
He drew her to a shadowed corner out of line with both door and window, and seized her passionately in his arms.
“If we—can’t have each other——” he declared tensely, “I don’t want life. You said you’d almost rather see me killed than lose me to another woman. Now, listen!”
Holding her close to his breast, he drew a deep breath and his narrowed eyes softened into something like contentment.
“If you tried to go out first, you’d die before they recognized you. They think I’m alone here and they’ll shoot at the first movement. But if I go out first and fight as long as I can then they’ll be satisfied and the way will be clear for you.”
She threw back her head and her hysterical laugh was scornful.