She bent her head a little lower. Her heart seemed as if it was about to break away from its bonds in her side. She could not speak; but, almost unconsciously, she closed her fingers upon his.
"Tell me," he cried. And again, with a note of fear in his voice: "Tell me if I may win you! Tell me if your heart has any promise?"
Before she could control her agitation sufficiently to answer him, the outer door of the cabin was swung open without ceremony, and Sir Ralph stamped in. He caught Kingswell by the wrist and wrenched it sharply.
"We are attacked," he cried. "They have piled heaps of dry brush along the palisades—and they have set the stuff on fire! It burns like mad. Lord, but it looks more like hell than ever!"
Even as he spoke, the fragrant, biting odour of the smoke from the burning evergreen-needles invaded the room. Kingswell got quickly to his feet, still holding the girl's hands. He did not look at the baronet. For a second he paused and peered, questioning, into her wonderful eyes.
"Oh, I love you, dear heart," she cried, faintly. "I love you, Bernard."
He stooped quickly (and how eagerly every lover knows), and even while the first brief and tremulous kiss was sweet on their lips, the muskets clapped deafeningly, savage shouts rang high, and the baronet thrust sword and hat into Bernard's hands.
"Come! For God's grace, lad, come and rally the men!" he shouted.
Then the lover turned from his mistress and saw the shrewd work that awaited him. He ran to it with a leaping heart.