The men became
restless, and Johnson began to edge away toward the lower hall. Alwyn
was watching him when a faint noise came to him on the eastern breeze--a
low, rumbling murmur. It died away, and rose again; then a distant
gun-shot woke the echoes.
"They're coming!" he cried. Standing back in the shadow of a front
window, he waited. Slowly, intermittently, the murmuring swelled, till
it grew distinguishable as yelling, cursing, and singing, intermingled
with the crash of pistol-shots. Far away a flame, as of a burning cabin,
arose, and a wilder, louder yell greeted it. Now the tramp of footsteps
could be heard, and clearer and thicker the grating and booming of
voices, until suddenly, far up the pike, a black moving mass, with
glitter and shout, swept into view. They came headlong, guided by
pine-torches, which threw their white and haggard faces into wild
distortion. Then as bonfire after bonfire met their gaze, they moved
slowly and more slowly, and at last sent a volley of bullets at the
fires. One bullet flew high and sang through a lighted window. Without a
word, Uncle Isaac sank upon the floor and lay still. Silence and renewed
murmuring ensued, and the sound of high voices in dispute. Then the mass
divided into two wings and slowly encircled the fence of fire; starting
noisily and confidently, and then going more slowly, quietly, warily, as
the silence of the flame began to tell on their heated nerves.
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