He was now
so near that he could see the rough wooden gate and the pyramidal nails
with which it was studded. He could guess the number of paces between
him and safety. He was out of breath and a little tired, for the
scramble up the nullah had not been a light one. Again he yelled
frantically to the dead walls, beseeching their inmates to get out of
bed and save his life.
There was still no sound from the sleeping fortress. He was barely a
hundred yards off, and he saw now that the walls were too high to climb
and that nothing remained but the gate. He picked up a stone and flung
it against the woodwork. The din echoed through the empty place, but
there was no sound of life. Just at the threshold there was a patch of
shadow. It was his one way of escape, and as he reached the door and
kicked and hammered at the wood, he cowered down in the shade, praying
that his friends behind might be something less than sharpshooters.
The pursuit saw its chance, and running forward to get within easy
range, proceeded to target practice. Lewis, kicking diligently at the
door, was trying to draw himself into the smallest space, and his mind
was far from comfortable. It needs good nerves to fill the position of
a target with equanimity, and he was too tired to take it in good part.
A disagreeable cold sweat stood on his brow, and his heart beat
violently.
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