"To get on to the roof over our heads is what they'd like best, no
doubt," said Stephen. "But my friend in the tower here is saving us from
that at the back, and they can't do much in front of our noses."
"I am not sure they cannot. They will think of something," grumbled the
landlord. "We are in a bad situation. I do not believe any of us will
see to-morrow. I only hope my brother will have the spirit to revenge
me. But even that is not my luck."
He was right. The Arabs had thought of something--"a something" which
they must have prepared before their start. Suddenly, behind the mound
of dead animals arose a fitful light, and while the Europeans wondered
at its meaning, a shower of burning projectiles flew through the air at
the barricade. All four fired a volley in answer, hoping to wing the
throwers, but the Arab scheme was a success. Tins of blazing pitch were
rolling about the courtyard, close to the barrier, but before falling
they had struck the piled mattresses and furniture, splashing fire and
trickles of flame poured over the old bedticking, and upholstered chairs
from the dining-room. At the same instant Nevill called from the door of
his tower: "More cartridges, quick! I'm all out, and there are two chaps
trying to shin up the wall. Maieddine's not dead. He's there, directing
'em."
Stephen gave Nevill his own rifle, just reloaded. "Fetch the cartridges
stored in the dining-room," he said to Rostafel, "while we beat the fire
out with our coats.
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