At the same moment, before Kingswell could reply to Bent's statement, a club, thrown by a retreating warrior, caught the gentleman on the side of the head and felled him like a thing of wood. He moaned, as he toppled over. Then he lay still on the ruddy snow.
Beatrix had a dozen candles alight in the living-room of the baronet's cabin. Word had reached her that Ouenwa and Black Feather had arrived in time to take advantage of the rebuff dealt the enemy by the explosions of the bags of powder. When victory had seemed to be hopelessly in the hands of the determined savages, Ouenwa and his followers, though spent from their journey, had made a timely and successful rear attack.
The girl was radiant. She moved up and down the room, eagerly awaiting the return of Bernard Kingswell. She questioned herself as to that, and laughed joyously. Yes, it was Bernard, beyond peradventure, whom heart, hands, and lips longed to recover and reward. A month ago, a week ago, it would have been her father—even a night ago he would have shared, equally with the lover, in her sweet and eager concern. But now she sped from hearth to door, and peered out into the blackness, with no thought of any of those brave fellows save the lad of Bristol.
The burning brush had all been trampled out, and the fires in the walls and stockade had been quenched with water. The little square was dark, save for the subdued fingers of light from windows and doors. Beatrix peered from the open door, regardless of the cold. She was outlined black against the warm radiance inside the room. Her silken garments clung about her, pressed gently by a breath of wind. She rested a hand on either upright of the doorway, and leaned forward as if, at a whim, she would fly out from the threshold. Presently shadowy figures took shape in the gloom, and she heard her father's voice, and William Trigget's, and the high pipe of Ouenwa. But she caught no sound of Bernard Kingswell's clear tones. A sudden fear caught her, and she stepped out upon the trampled snow and called to Sir Ralph. In a moment he was at her side, and had an arm about her.
"Sweeting," he said, "you must stay within for a little. The night is bitterly cold, and—"
"But where is Bernard?" she whispered, staring past him.
"He is with the others," replied the baronet,—"with Ouenwa and his brave fellows, and the dauntless Trigget."
He spoke quickly and uneasily, and led her back to the cabin at the same time. He closed the door, and laid a wet sword across a stool.
"What is it?" she cried, facing him, with wide eyes and bloodless cheeks. "Tell me! Tell me!"
"The lad is hurt," admitted Sir Ralph.