“Yes,” panted the maid. Her shoulder was bruised by the heavy musket, her arms ached with the quick ramming and lifting, but she loaded and fired as rapidly as she could.
“Father,” called the Captain. “Quick! come here. They are too many for me!”
The priest ran across the floor, half blinded 226 by the smoke, cocking his musket as he came. “Where, M’sieu?”
“There––at the oak! They are preparing for a rush!”
He fired, at the last word, and one warrior sprawled on his face. The priest followed.
“That will check them. Now back to the door!”
Father Claude turned. The light was dim and the smoke heavy. His eyes smarted and blurred, so that he heard, rather than saw, the logs come crashing back into the hut. Menard heard it also; and together the two men dashed forward. They met the rush of Indians with blows that could not be stayed, but there was a score pushing behind the few who had entered. Slowly, the two backed across the hut. The stock of Menard’s musket broke short off against the head of the Beaver. His foot struck another, and he snatched it up and fought on.
“Mademoiselle,” he called, “where are you?”
“Here, M’sieu!”
The voice was behind him. Then he felt a weight on his shoulder. The wearied maid, for want of another rest for her musket, fired past his face straight into the dark mass of Indians. She tried to reload, but Menard was swept back 227 against her. With one arm he caught and held her tight against him, swinging the musket with his free hand. She clung to him, hardly breathing. They reached the rear wall. One tall warrior bounded forward and struck the musket from his hand. That was the end of the struggle. They were torn apart, and dragged roughly out into the blinding sunlight.