“Suppose the match does not burn?” observed Glenn, in tones betraying a fearful apprehension.

“In such an event,” said Boone, “we must retreat into the house, and fasten the door without a moment’s delay.  But I do not much fear any such failure, for the dampness of the snow cannot so soon have penetrated through the dry reeds to the powder.  Still we should be prepared—­therefore, as there is no necessity that more than one of us should be here now, and as I am that man, withdraw, all of you, within the house, and remain there until your ears and eyes shall dictate what course to pursue.”  Boone’s command was promptly obeyed, and when they reached the house and looked back, (the door was kept open,) they beheld the renowned pioneer standing erect, holding a pistol in his right hand (which he pointed at the cotton that connected with a train of powder running along a short plank to the reed that reached the buried keg,) while the moon, now midway in the heavens, “and beautifully bright,” revealed the stern and determined expression of pale brow and fixed lip.  Thus he stood many minutes, and they seemed hours to those who gazed upon the breathless scene from the house.  Not a sound was heard, save the rapid ticking of tomahawks under the snow outside of the inclosure, or the occasional hasty remark of those who were looking on in painful and thrilling suspense.  Once Boone bowed his head and listened an instant to the operations of the savages, and when he rose erect again, the party looking on confidently expected he would fire the train.  But the fatal moment had not yet arrived.  Still he pointed the pistol at the combustible matter, and his eye glanced along the barrel; but he maintained a statue-like stillness, as if awaiting some preconcerted signal.

“Why don’t he fire?” inquired Glenn, in a whisper.

“It is not quite time yet,” responded Roughgrove.

“Dod! they’ll crawl up presently, and jump over the fence,” said Sneak.

“Oh, goodness!  I wish he’d shoot!” said Joe, in low, sepulchral tones, his head thrust between Sneak’s legs, whither he had crawled unobserved, and was now peering out at the scene.

“Who are you?” exclaimed Sneak, leaping away from Joe’s bandaged head, which he did not recognize at the first glance.

“It’s nobody but me,” said Joe, turning his face upward, that his friend might not suppose him an enemy.

“Well, what are you doing here?  I thought you was a dying.”

“I’m a good deal better, but I’m too weak to do any thing yet,” said Joe, in piteous tones, as he looked fearfully at Boone, and listened to the strokes of the Indians without, which became louder and louder.

“Stand back a little,” said Boone to those in the door-way, “that I may enter when I fire—­the match may burn more briskly than I anticipated.”