Even as he spoke they heard the sound of men running. Heavy footsteps came up the path towards the cottage. They heard Dan’s voice roaring at them, bidding them open to him, or they would break down the door.
XLII
Jeffray stood gripping his pistols in the cottage room, driven by strange stress of circumstances to fight for a peasant girl against a crowd of cursing and sweating smugglers. He had never stood forward as a hero among his peers, those blue-eyed, plump-bellied worthies who preached or swore in the pulpit and at the dining-table. Slim, sensitive, yet strong now as a band of steel, he waited, watching the door heave and creak beneath the weight of Dan’s great body. Bess, kneeling behind her chair, was plying the ramrod. Her eyes met Jeffray’s for a moment, the gleam in them speaking for her woman’s heart.
Men were massing outside the cottage, brown handed, brown faced, redolent of liquor and of the sweat of action. Bess heard old Isaac’s treble, warning the fellows to keep clear of the window, and calling for a beam to break down the door. Jeffray saw the hole that he had blown in the lock with the musket darkened by the shadow of a man’s head. The glittering white of an eyeball showed through the rent. He stepped aside from the stretch of floor that the hole commanded, knowing that a pistol’s snout might take the place of a man’s eye. Nor was he too swift in the conclusion. There was a brisk report, a belching of smoke into the room, and a ball flattened itself against the opposite wall. Bess’s eyes flashed round to see whether Jeffray were hurt or no. He shook his head at her, smiled, and pointed to the window.
A lull followed. Then there was much shouting and a stamping of feet along the pathway to the cottage. They were bringing up a wagon-pole to beat in the door, and the oaken barrier shook and quivered at the first charge. A second shout like the shout of sailors heaving at a rope, a second swing of the pole, and the door split in the centre. Jeffray levelled a pistol and fired. He saw a contorted face sink back out of sight, heard a cry of pain, and a volley of curses. Turning quietly to the table he began recharging the empty pistol. Bess was crouching behind her chair, the musket resting on the rail, its muzzle covering the window.
She gave a sudden sharp cry, and pressed her cheek close to the stock. Jeffray, who was watching her, saw her eyes gleam out, the white crook of her forefinger tightening on the trigger. An echoing roar filled the room. Smoke swirled about the beams, wreathed and drifted into the corners. Jeffray, looking towards the window, saw nothing but a shattered lattice and blue vapor curling out into the sunlight. He gazed hard at Bess as he rammed home the bullet and sprinkled the powder on the pan. She seemed unconscious for the moment of his presence, a strange smile playing about her mouth.
“Who was it?” he asked her.
She did not move or look at Jeffray.
“A man. He was pointing a pistol at you through the window.”
“Is he down?”