"On all sides, eh?" the Captain muttered. He called to the others: "Waste no powder. Shoot only when you are sure of hitting. They will fall back again. Two dead Indians will discourage the wildest charge." The firing went on at intervals, but still the warriors kept at it, creeping up from bush to bush and tree to tree. Menard's face grew more serious as the time went by. He began to realize that the Long Arrow was desperate, that he was determined on vengeance before the other chiefs could come. It had been a typical savage thought that had led him to bring Menard to this village, where he had once lived, rather than to the one in which the chief held greater permanent authority; the scheme was too complete and too near its end for delay or failure to be considered. Still the attacking party drew nearer, swelled every moment by a new group. Then Menard saw their object. They would soon be near enough to dash in close to the wall, where their very nearness would disable the white men's muskets. "Work fast!" he said suddenly. "They must not get nearer!" "Yes," panted the maid. Her shoulder was bruised by the heavy musket, her arms ached with the quick ramming and lifting, but she loaded and fired as rapidly as she could. "Father," called the Captain. "Quick! come here. They are too many for me!" The priest ran across the floor, half blinded by the smoke, cocking his musket as he came. "Where, M'sieu?" "There--at the oak! They are preparing for a rush!" He fired, at the last word, and one warrior sprawled on his face. The priest followed. "That will check them. Now back to the door!" Father Claude turned. The light was dim and the smoke heavy. His eyes smarted and blurred, so that he heard, rather than saw, the logs come crashing back into the hut. Menard heard it also; and together the two men dashed forward. They met the rush of Indians with blows that could not be stayed, but there was a score pushing behind the few who had entered. Slowly, the two backed across the hut. The stock of Menard's musket broke short off against the head of the Beaver. His foot struck another, and he snatched it up and fought on. "Mademoiselle," he called, "where are you?" "Here, M'sieu!" The voice was behind him. Then he felt a weight on his shoulder. The wearied maid, for want of another rest for her musket, fired past his face straight into the dark mass of Indians. She tried to reload, but Menard was swept back against her. With one arm he caught and held her tight against him, swinging the musket with his free hand. She clung to him, hardly breathing. They reached the rear wall. One tall warrior bounded forward and struck the musket from his hand. That was the end of the struggle. They were torn apart, and dragged roughly out into the blinding sunlight.