Every minute the air grew heavier, and the sky darker, so that when
about five in the afternoon we passed the Gap and struggled up the last
hill to the stockade, it seemed as if night had already fallen.

Elspeth and Ringan were there, and the two trappers had just returned.
I could do nothing but pant on the ground, but Shalah cried out for
news of Grey. He heard that he had gone into the woods with his musket
two hours past. At this he flung up his hands with a motion of despair.
"We cannot wait," he said to Ringan. "Close the gate and put every man
to his post, for the danger is at hand."

Ringan gave his orders. The big log gate was barred, the fire trampled
out, and we waited in that thunderous darkness. A long draught of cold
water had revived me, and I could think clearly of Elspeth. Her bower
was in the safest part of the stockade, but she would not stay there, I
could see terror in her eyes, but she gave no sign of it. She made
ready our supper of cold meat as if she had no other thought in the
world.

Waiting on an attack is a hard trial for mortal nerves. I am not
ashamed to confess that in those minutes my courage was little to boast
of. I envied Ringan his ease, and Bertrand his light cheerfulness, and
Donaldson his unshaken gravity, and especially I envied Shalah his
godlike calm. But most of all I envied Elspeth the courage which could
know desperate fear and never show it. Most likely I did myself some
wrong. Most likely my own face was firm enough, but, if it were, 'twas
a poor clue to the brain behind it. I fell to wondering about Grey
still travelling in the woods. Was there any hope for him? Was there
hope, indeed, for any one of us penned in a wooden palisade fifty miles
from aid, a handful against an army?