“Nay, nay, Master Bartlett, do not jest at such a time as this,” I said irritably. “It is for you and Stephen Morley to say what should be done, even though we had a full company here.” “Then it is to my mind, lad, that when the villains are come close to the gates we shall open fire, taking good care each bullet counts, for it will avail us nothing to give them an opportunity to decide how we may be attacked. In fact, we are not in position to stand a long battle, because of the probability that there may be many others of their kind in the vicinity.” Then it was we understood, by the sound of the voices, that the newcomers had halted a short distance away, and I was on the point of clambering up to the sentry’s platform in the hope of seeing what might have stopped them, when suddenly there rang out on the night air a woman’s voice, shrill and full of agony. At that cry, which came to our ears like an appeal for help which could not be disregarded, Master Bartlett forgot entirely that he claimed to be only a private under my command, and said sharply, as he began to unbar the gates: “Stand ready, lads! They have found some poor creature who had been hiding in the ruins of her own home, perchance, and we will take a hand in the matter whatever may be the result.” One of the big gates had been swung open wide enough to admit of our passing out, before the old man ceased speaking, and I was the first to go through the opening, showing how illy fitted I was to command even this remnant of a company of Minute Boys, since I forgot entirely our wounded comrade and he who watched by his side. It was Stephen Morley who halted me by placing his hand on my shoulder, as he whispered: “One moment, lad, until Simon Bartlett has decided who shall remain to hold the stockade,” and then I remembered my neglect, turning on the instant to make amends by going back, when Master Bartlett, having thrust Miles Parker aside, said to him: “Bar the gate after we are on the outside, and await some signal from us before you open it again.” Then he pressed forward upon my heels, and I could not have delayed if I would. Again came that cry of agony, and I could think only of the poor creature in such sore straits; but yet had sufficient sense to understand that we must go out under some leadership, rather than helter-skelter like a flock of sheep. “Lead on, Stephen Morley, and I will bring up the rear,” Master Bartlett said, and thus were our preparations made. [Illustration: “ONE OF WHOM A PAINTED BRUTE HELD HIGH IN HIS HAND.”]