Now and then the boom of a
small gun varied the noise, but the rifles never ceased for an instant.
To this awe-inspiring tune I dressed, by the light of a carefully shaded
candle, to avoid giving any mark for our foes. The firing never abated,
and I had a sort of idea that any moment a Dutchman would look in at the
door, for one could not tell from what side the real attack might be. In
various stages of deshabille people were running round the house seeking
for rifles, fowling-pieces, and even sticks, as weapons of defence.
Meanwhile the gloom was still unbroken, but for the starlight, and it
was very cold. The Cockney waiter, who was such a fund of amusement to
me, had dashed off with his rifle to his redoubt, taking the keys of the
house in his pocket, so no one could get into the dining-room to have
coffee, except through the kitchen window. The two hours of darkness
that had to elapse were the longest I have ever spent. Hurried footsteps
passed to and fro, dark lanterns flashed for an instant, intensifying
the blackness, and all of a sudden the sound I had been waiting for
added to the weird horror of the situation, an alarm bugle, winding out
its tale, clear and true to the farthest byways and the most remote
shanties, followed by our tocsin, the deep-toned Roman Catholic Church
bell, which was the signal that a general attack was in progress.
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