om
Brightson startled me.

"What has happened?" I asked, as I reached his side, and for answer he
pointed out through the loophole.

"They have fired the nigger quarters and outbuildings," he said grimly.
"They'll probably try to fire the house next."

Even as we looked, the flames rose high above the roofs of the cabins and
bathed the clearing in red radiance. In and out among the buildings we
could see the Indians scampering, a hundred of them at least. Suddenly
there was a chorus of yells, and two Indians appeared, rolling a cask
before them into the belt of light.

"They've found a keg of rum which was in my quarters," remarked
Brightson; "now they'll get crazy drunk. Our task has just begun,
Captain Stewart."

I realized that he spoke the truth. Sober, an Indian will not stand up
long in open fight, but drunk, he is a devil incarnate,--a fiend who will
dare anything. I watched them as they knocked in the head of the cask and
scooped up the raw spirits within. Then one of them began a melancholy
melody, which rose and fell in measured cadence, the other warriors
gradually joining in and stamping the ground with their feet. Every
minute one would run to the cask for another draught of the rum, and
gradually their yells grew louder, their excitement more intense, as they
rushed back and forth brandishing their weapons.

"They will soon be on us again," said Brightson in a low tone, but round
and round they kept dancing, their leader in front in all his war
trappings, the others almost naked, and for the most part painted black.
No wonder I had been unable to see them in the darkness.

"They are going to attack us again, Tom, are they not?" asked a low voice
at my elbow.

"Dorothy," I cried, "what are you doing here? Come, you must get back to
the stair at once. The attack may come at any moment."

"You are treating me like a child," she protested, and her eyes flashed
passionately. "Do you think we are cowards, we women? We will not be
treated so! We have come to help you."

I looked at her in amazement. This was not the Dorothy I knew, but a
braver, sweeter one. Her mother and Mrs. Marsh were behind her, both
looking equally determined.

"Very well," I said, yielding with an ill grace. "You may sit on the
floor here and load the guns as we fire them. That will be of greater
service than if you fired them yourselves, and you will be quite out of
reach of the bullets."

Dorothy sniffed contemptuously at