A scene of the wildest terror and confusion was now illumined by the glare of the fire, and at short intervals came the sound of short, sharp explosions, as the flames reached the charged guns of the Indians or the kegs of gunpowder lavishly stored in their houses.
But Charles stood like a statue in the midst of the turmoil.

His face was white and terrible; his gun was in his hands.

He did not attempt to fire it, although Indians were scuttling past him like hunted hares; he stood stern and passive, biding his time.
The ring of flame round the centre house rose higher and higher.
Cries and screams were heard issuing from within.

Some intrepid warrior was chanting his death song, dauntless to the last.

A frightened squaw was shrieking aloud; but not even the sound of a woman's voice moved Charles from his fell purpose.
Suddenly his, face changed; the light flashed into his eyes.