She had loaned it to the men.
But her axe—that was below.
As she started for it, there was a burst of war cries.
She ran down the narrow stairs, and took the axe from its place on the wall.
They were passing her door. The room grew lighter. She turned. One stood in the open doorway, black against the sunshine. She set her teeth hard, hid the axe behind her skirts, watched him motionless.
He stretched out his hand clawlike, and laughed, his eyes gleaming, as catlike he moved nearer, A terror seized her: with a hoarse cry, she sprang up the stairs, flinging down a chair as he followed panting.
Quickly she climbed up the ladder to the loft, threw down the trapdoor, fell on it, bolted it, waited. All was still. Outside she heard the distant yells. She stooped noiselessly and put her ear upon the floor. There was soft breathing underneath, and through a crack in the floor she saw an eye peering up at her.
She stood a long time, motionless, axe in hand, ready.
Her back was to the bolt, but suddenly she felt that there was something there. She turned softly. A slim brown hand was almost through a crevice in the floor.
She raised her axe. The slender fingers touched the bolt and gently drew it back.