Screening himself as best he could behind a jagged ledge of
adobe, he fired through a crack at three or four Arabs who made a human
ladder for a comrade to mount the wall. The man at the top fell. The
next mounted, to be shot by Nevill from a watch-tower. The bullet
pierced the fellow's leg, which was what Nevill wished, for he, who
hated to rob even an insect of its life, aimed now invariably at arms or
legs, never at any vital part. "All we want," he thought half guiltily,
"is to disable the poor brutes. They must obey the marabout. We've no
spite against 'em!"
But every one knew that it was a question of moments only before some
Arab, quicker or luckier than the rest, would succeed in firing the
trail of gunpowder already laid. The gate would be blown up. Then would
follow a rush of the enemy and the second stand of the defenders behind
the barricade. Last of all, the retreat to the dining-room.
Among the first precautions Stephen had taken was that of locking the
doors of all rooms except the dining-room, and pulling out the keys, so
that, when the enemy got into the quadrangle, they would find themselves
forced to stay in the open, or take shelter in the watch-towers vacated
by the defenders. From the doorways of these, they could not do much
harm to the men behind the barricade. But there was one thing they might
do, against which Stephen had not guarded. The idea flashed into his
head now, too late.
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