Bending in his covert, Harold retreated stealthily as a coyote to the empty fort. As he passed through the gate into the dismal solitude, with all its suggestions of recent life and cheer, his heart quivered afresh with the sense of what it all meant. He knew the subterranean secrets of the fort well; and knew, too, that some of the Indians were likely to stray back at any time. Both block-houses of the post had deep stoned cellars, from which were exits into the underground sally-port opening on the river bank. He could easily hide himself here among the rubbish and lumber, and perhaps find something to eat. He did indeed discover some scraps of bread and bacon, and, better yet, a retreat to elude the keenest eye down in that dusky cavern. As the day waxed the heat grew stifling, but there was a well in the cellar which relieved his thirst. In fumbling about the place for the pump-handle, he found several barrels apparently undisturbed. He marvelled what they could be, and by some blind instinct did not make his hiding-place here, but selected a spot protected by a mound of empty boxes close to a little timber gate which opened into the sally-port. He heard the yells and shouts of the Indians outside and above as they roamed about everywhere, searching for the "fire-water," which they loved so well. They had indeed been doubly infuriated because the commandant had ordered the destruction of the whiskey and the powder. They fancied that some might have escaped, and were hunting for it like hounds on the scent. Harold could now and then construe an Indian word, and he thought of the barrels so near at hand. He had felt a broken candle in one of the boxes where he hid, and this he now lit from his flint and steel. As he groped his way, peering at the cellar bottom, he perceived several black trails converging toward the heap of casks. He blew out his light with a gasp, and a breath of ice stirred the roots of his hair and chilled his marrow as the truth flashed on him. Some of the soldiers had left full powder-barrels and a train to destroy the careless savages, if possible, should they go down with lighted candle or torch. Harold crawled back to his ambush, and tugged with all his might at the little timber gate; but the bolts were rusty with damp and disuse.