Amos Bartlett extended his hand, and Gilbert took it again. By this time the refreshments were ready to be served, and the whole party moved to a piazza of the residence where it was more shady. The move was a providential one; for hardly were the party seated around the table which the Chinese servant had spread when there came a low and sudden whine, as of something in deadly pain, and a shell burst directly in the top of a tree growing in the centre of the garden. The report was followed by a shower of small branches and leaves, and then it was seen that the tree had been split in twain almost from top to bottom. “Creation! but that was close!” cried Gilbert; while Jennie Bartlett shrieked from fright. Then the young lieutenant looked at the split tree. “Get out of the way!” he ejaculated hoarsely. “It’s coming down on top of us!” CHAPTER XVIII THE SPY IN THE RIVER Gilbert had been sitting next to Jennie Bartlett; and, as he uttered the words recorded in the last chapter, he caught the young lady by the arm. There was a window of the house handy,--a long affair, reaching to the piazza floor,--and through this he sprang, taking the frightened miss with him. Bang! crash! One side of the tree struck the piazza fairly and squarely; and in a twinkling the roof was completely shattered, the table with its dishes crushed flat, and Amos Bartlett was caught and pinned to the ground, with his wife beside him. There was a cloud of dust and splinters, followed by a yell from the Chinese servant, who was of the opinion that the whole building was doomed, and who fled out of the house and up the street at his best speed. “Oh!” came from Jennie Bartlett. “Father and mother!” “It is over now,” said Gilbert, as the crashing stopped and the dust began to settle. “You were not touched, were you?” “No; but poor father and mother--” She could say no more. Leaving the girl in the house, Gilbert stepped outside once more. A glance showed him that the tree had settled as far as possible, so danger from this source was now over. He ran to the side of the elder Bartletts, to find Mrs. Bartlett trying to regain her feet. The lady had a slight bruise on the shoulder, but was otherwise uninjured. “My husband! He is dead!” she panted. “Oh, poor Amos! What shall I do now?” “He isn’t dead. He is only unconscious,” said Gilbert, as he knelt by the tea-merchant’s side, and applied his ear to the elderly man’s breast. “His heart still beats. See, he has been struck in the back of the head.” And he pointed out the wound, from which the blood was trickling. “What shall I do?” repeated Mrs. Bartlett, wringing her hands. The disaster had completely unnerved her. “Get a little water and a towel, and we will bind up his head. Is there a doctor anywhere about?” “There is a doctor on the street behind ours,--Dr. Fairchild.”