“Then you think the attack is imminent?”
“Yes, it may come at any moment.”
“But Baptiste tells me the Indians have made no sign all day.”
“True enough,” assented the captain, “and that’s the worst of it. They are hatching some deep-laid deviltry, be sure! I have my suspicions, and I communicated them to Menzies. He agrees with me that the attack will probably burst upon us in the form of a—”
He never finished the sentence. The words were stifled on his lips by a tremendous explosion that seemed to shake the very ground, and rattled and thundered far away into the heart of the wilderness. A crash of falling debris followed, and then the night rang with shrill clamor and blood-curdling whoops.
“Nom de Dieu! we are lost!” wailed Baptiste.
“My God, what does it mean?” I cried, clutching Captain Rudstone’s arm with a trembling hand.
“My prediction, Carew,” he answered hoarsely. “It has come—it is what I expected. The devils have tunneled under the snow and planted a powder bag against the stockade. They have blown a breach.”
“We’ll keep them out of it as long as we can,” I shouted. “Hark! the fighting has begun.”
The captain and I had already set off on a run, and Baptiste was hanging at our heels. Shouting and yelling rose from all parts of the fort, and blended with the wild cheers of the savages. Dark forms loomed right and left of us as we sped on. Guided by the clamor and by the great column of smoke that was stamped blackly against the driving snow, we soon reached the scene of the explosion, which was the northeast watch-tower.