That in the lust and passion of his designs and the arrogance of his
power John Graham was not afraid to overstep all law and order, and that
he believed Holt would shelter Mary Standish from injury and death,
there could no longer be a doubt after the first few swift moments
following Sokwenna's rifle-shots from the attic window.

Through the window of the lower room, barricaded by the cautious old
warrior until its aperture was not more than eight inches square, Alan
thrust his rifle as the crash of gun-fire broke the gray and thickening
mist of night. He could hear the thud and hiss of bullets; he heard them
singing like angry bees as they passed with the swiftness of
chain-lightning over the cabin roof, and their patter against the log
walls was like the hollow drumming of knuckles against the side of a
ripe watermelon. There was something fascinating and almost gentle about
that last sound. It did not seem that the horror of death was riding
with it, and Alan lost all sense of fear as he stared in the direction
from which the firing came, trying to make out shadows at which to
shoot. Here and there he saw dim, white streaks, and at these he fired
as fast as he could throw cartridges into the chamber and pull the
trigger. Then he crouched down with the empty gun. It was Mary Standish
who held out a freshly loaded weapon to him. Her face was waxen in its
deathly pallor. Her eyes, staring at him so strangely, never for an
instant leaving his face, were lustrous with the agony of fear that
flamed in their depths. She was not afraid for herself. It was for
_him_. His name was on her lips, a whisper unspoken, a breathless
prayer, and in that instant a bullet sped through the opening in front
of which he had stood a moment before, a hissing, writhing serpent of
death that struck something behind them in its venomous wrath. With a
cry she flung up her arms about his bent head.

"My God, they will kill you if you stand there!" she moaned. "Give me up
to them, Alan. If you love me--give me up!"

A sudden spurt of white dust shot out into the dim candle-glow, and then
another, so near Nawadlook that his blood went cold. Bullets were
finding their way through the moss and earth chinking between the logs
of the cabin. His arms closed in a fierce embrace about the girl's slim
body, and before she could realize what was happening, he leaped to the
trap with her and almost flung her into its protection. Then he forced
Nawadlo