An eery, blood-curdling sound that chilled the
heart and caused the roots of her hair to prickle along the base of her
skull. It was the war-cry of the Yellow Knives as they fired, and ran,
and clambered up the ladders,
The sights and sounds were clean-cut, distinct, intensely
thrilling--but impersonal, like the shifting scenes of a photo-play.
She glanced about for MacNair. Her eyes travelled swiftly from face to
swarthy face of the men who charged out of the timber. She directed
her glance toward the wall, and there, not twenty feet away, she saw
him reach for the rungs of the ladder. And the next moment two forms
crashed backward into the snow. For an instant the girl closed her
eyes, and in that instant her brain awoke with a start. About her the
sounds leaped into terrible significance. She realized that she was
outside the walls of the stockade. That the sights and sounds about
her were intensely real.
The forces of MacNair and Lapierre had locked horns in the final
struggle, and her fate, and the fate of the whole North, hung in the
balance. All about her were the hideous sounds of battle.
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