"Now is our time!" exclaimed Kingswell. "Run for the gate, lads."
CHAPTER XIII. SIGNS OF A DIVIDED HOUSE
The returning hunters were promptly admitted to the fort. The little garrison welcomed them joyfully. The West Country sailors were, for the moment, cordial even toward D'Antons, whom they usually ignored. The party had taken a hundred chances with death in the crossing of the narrow clearing. Arrows had followed them from the fringe of wood along the river, like bees from an overturned hive. Ouenwa's left arm had been scratched. D'Antons' fur cap had been torn from his head, pierced through and through. A hail of missiles had clattered against the gate as the good timbers swung to behind them. Cries of rage and chagrin, in which Ouenwa's name was repeated many times, rang from the retreat of the defeated warriors. The garrison answered with cheers. Ouenwa's shrill voice carried clear above the tumult, lifted in Beothic insults.
Sir Ralph himself was in command of the imperilled fortress. The excitement had stirred him out of his customary gloom. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks flew a patch of colour. His sword was at his side, and he held a musket in his hand.
"That was their third attempt to get over the stockade," he said to Kingswell and D'Antons. "They are filled with the very devil to-day. But I scarcely think that they will come back for more, now that Trigget has got his growlers into working order."
"How did it begin?" asked the Frenchman.
"Why, about three score of them marched up and said they wanted to come in and trade," replied the baronet, "but, as they seemed to have nothing to trade save their bows and spears, Trigget warned them off. Then they went out on the river and began chopping up the Red Rose and the Pelican. At that we let off a musket, and they retired to cover, from which they soon emerged with reinforcements and tried to carry the place by weight of numbers."
"Hark," said the Frenchman. "What is that they are yelling?"