Hamilton looked as Farnsworth directed, and sure enough, there was
the young Virginian Lieutenant, standing on a barricade, his hat
off, cheering his men with a superb show of zeal. Not a hair of
his head was missing, so far as the glass could be relied upon to
show.
Oncle Jazon's quick old eyes saw the gleam of the telescope tube
in the loop-hole.
"I never could shoot much," he muttered, and then a little bullet
sped with absolute accuracy from his disreputable looking rifle
and shattered the object-lens, just as Hamilton moved to withdraw
the glass, uttering an ejaculation of intense excitement.
"Such devils of marksmen!" said he, and his face was haggard.
"That infernal Indian lied."
"I could have told you all the time that the scalp Long-Hair
brought to you was not Beverley's," said Helm indifferently. "I
recognized Lieutenant Barlow's hair as soon as I saw it."
This was another piece of off-hand romance. Helm did not dream
that he was accidentally sketching a horrible truth.
"Barlow's!" exclaimed Farnsworth.
"Yes, Barlow's, no mistake--"
Two more men reeled from a port-hole, the blood spinning far out
of their wounds. Indeed, through every aperture in the walls the
bullets were now humming like mad hornets.
"Close that port-hole!" stormed Hamilton; then turning to
Farnsworth he added: "We cannot endure this long.
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