Cameron's young face grew even whiter and more drawn; this time with something more than fever—the thought of the task before him.
"Four shots for them, Pansy, and the fifth for you," he answered hoarsely.
"Yes, Bob, whatever you do, don't forget the fifth."
As they talked, thundering blows were falling on the door, filling the room with constantly recurring echoes. But the wood and iron withstood the assault. The noise stopped suddenly. From outside, voices could be heard, evidently discussing what had better be done next.
Pansy and Cameron crossed to the far side of the room, and stood there side by side, their backs against the wall, waiting.
When the blows came again they were different; one heavy, ponderous thud that made the door creak and groan, with a pause between each blow.
"They've got a battering-ram to work now, a tree trunk or something," Cameron remarked. "That good old door won't be able to stand the strain much longer."
Then he glanced at the girl, longing in his eyes.
"Let me give you one kiss, Pansy. A good-bye kiss," he whispered. "It's years since I've kissed you. You're such a one for keeping a fellow at arm's length nowadays."
With death knocking at the door Pansy could not refuse him; this nice boy she had always liked, yet never loved.