the echoes of my footsteps rolled through the halls and chambers. At
last, prompted by curiosity and fear, I sought the kitchen, where I had
often sat with Breed as he cooked the master's dinner. This was at the
bottom and end of the house. The great fire there was cold, and the pots
and pans hung neatly on their hooks, untouched that day. I was running
through the wet garden, glad to be out in the light, when a sound stopped
me.

It was a dull roar from the direction of the bay. Almost instantly came
another, and another, and then several broke together. And I knew that
the battle had begun. Forgetting for the moment my loneliness, I ran
into the house and up the stairs two at a time, and up the ladder into
the cupola, where I flung open the casement and leaned out.

There was the battle indeed,--a sight so vivid to me after all these
years that I can call it again before me when I will. The toy
men-o'-war, with sails set, ranging in front of the fort. They looked at
my distance to be pressed against it. White puffs, like cotton balls,
would dart one after another from a ship's side, melt into a cloud, float
over her spars, and hide her from my view. And then presently the roar
would reach me, and answering puffs along the line of the fort. And I
could see the mortar shells go up and up, leaving a scorched trail
behind, curve in a great circle, and fall upon the little garrison.
Mister Moultrie became a real person to me then, a vivid picture in my
boyish mind--a hero beyond all other heroes.

As the sun got up in the heavens and the wind fell, the cupola became a
bake-oven. But I scarcely felt the heat. My whole soul was out in the
bay, pent up with the men in the fort. How long could they hold out?
Why were they not all killed by the shot that fell like hail among them?