Phil stood at another, smiling with admiration for their daring:
"By George, it stirs the blood to see it! You can't crush men of that breed!"
The watchers were not long in doubt as to what the raiders meant.
They deployed quickly around the armory. A whistle rang its shrill cry, and a volley of two hundred and fifty carbines and revolvers smashed every glass in the building. The sentinel had already given the alarm, and the drum was calling the startled negroes to their arms. They returned the volley twice, and for ten minutes were answered with the steady crack of two hundred and fifty guns. A white flag appeared at the door, and the firing ceased. The negroes laid down their arms and surrendered. All save three were allowed to go to their homes for the night and carry their wounded with them.
The three confederates in the crime of their captain were bound and led away. In a few minutes the crash of a volley told their end.
The little white figure rapped at Phil's door and placed a trembling hand on his arm:
"Phil," she said softly, "please go to the hotel and stay until you know all that has happened—until you know the full list of those killed and wounded. I'll wait. You understand?"
As he stooped and kissed her, he felt a hot tear roll down her cheek.
"Yes, little Sis, I understand," he answered.
