For a moment they waited with beating hearts, hoping against hope that the figures on the sky-line had not been seen—a hope that was cut short by the swish of a bullet and a shout of triumph that the range had been found so nearly. Wylie raised himself sharply.
“Roll these stones together,” he said, setting the example himself. “We can hold out some time behind a sangar here.”
“Nay, lord!” came in protesting tones from Zeko and his men. “The accursed who are behind us cannot reach this hill for many minutes, and it will shield us from their fire. Let us rather slay the women and steal down towards the line of the miscreants in front. Then we can throw ourselves upon them and kill many more than our own number.”
“Be quiet!” said Wylie roughly. “Demo, that stone.”
The man obeyed, without enthusiasm, and the loose rocks were piled into a rough breastwork, through the interstices of which the rifles could be fired. When it was finished, Zoe crept up to Wylie, her whole frame vibrating with indignation.
“You won’t let them touch us?” she panted. “If it has to be done, you will do it yourself?”
“Don’t—don’t ask me!” His voice was full of entreaty, but Zoe was pitiless.
“You must,” she persisted. “Why, from you—— You know,” she broke off suddenly, “you hate us all.”
“If I did, it would be easy enough to do it. You know well enough it isn’t that. It’s—the very opposite.”
“Then I have a right to ask you to do it. You promise?”