Macfarlane.

"It is Ambrose Doane and Tole Grampierre," cried Ambrose.

They heard an exclamation of astonishment from the door.

"What do you want?" demanded the voice.

"To help you defend yourselves."

From the sounds that reached him, Ambrose gathered that the door was
open and that Macfarlane stood within the hall. From farther back
Colina's voice rang out:

"How dare you! Do you expect us to believe you? Go back to your
friends!"

"They are not my men," Ambrose answered doggedly.

"Wait!" cried still another voice. Ambrose recognized the smooth
accents of Gordon Strange. "We can't afford to turn away any
defenders. I say let him come in."

Ambrose was surprised, and none too well pleased to hear his part taken
in this quarter. There was a silence. He apprehended that they were
consulting in the hall. Finally Macfarlane called curtly:

"You may come in."

As he went up the path Ambrose saw that the windows of the lower floor
had been roughly boarded up. The thought struck him oddly: "How could
they have had warning of what was going to happen?"

"There's barbed wire around the porch," said Macfarlane, "You'll have
to get over it the best way you can."

Ambrose and Tole helped each other through the obstruction. They found
Macfarlane sitting on a chair in the doorway, with his rifle across his
knees.

"Go into the library," he said.

The door was on the right hand as one entered the hall. Within a lamp
had just been lighted; even as Ambrose entered Colina was turning up
the wick.

Heavy curtains had been bung over the windows to keep any rays of light
from escaping, and the door was instantly closed behind Ambrose and
Tole.

Inside the little room that he already knew so well Ambrose found all
the defenders gathered. The only one strange to him was little
Pringle, the missionary, who sat primly on the sofa. It had much the
look of an ordinary evening party, but the row of guns by the door told
a tale.

John Gaviller sat in his swivel chair behind his desk, leaning his head
on his hand. Ambrose was shocked by the change that three months'
illness had worked in him.

The self-assured, the scornfully affable trader had become a mere
pantaloon with sunken cheeks and trembling hands. Ambrose looked with
quick compassion toward Colina.

She went to her father and stood by his chair with a hand on his
shoulder. She coldly ignored Ambrose's glance.

"What have you to say for yo