"Jack, Jack," he panted, as he flung open the door of the room in
which the young men slept--"Jack, come down and--"

He stopped abruptly. Mr. Connolly was kneeling at the bedside,
and his two sons knelt to the right and left of him.

There were no family prayers at Lisnahoe; only the ladies were
regular church-goers; but that it was a religious household no one
could have doubted who knew the events of the night and saw the
old man on his knees between his boys.

They rose at the noise of Harold's entrance, and the American, who
felt that there were no moments to be wasted on apologies, announced
his errand.

"Old Peter Dwyer is a traitor! He has gone out and brought the
murderers to finish the work they have commenced."

And then, in eager, breathless words, he told them how he had heard
the conversation in the shrubbery, and how the men, apprehensive
that Miss Connolly could identify them, had returned to stifle her
testimony.

"They were right there," said the old man. "She saw the first
blow, and it was struck by Red Mike Driscoll."

"Then she is better?" asked Harold, eagerly.

The boys were at the other end of the room, slipping cartridges
loaded with small shot into the fowling-pieces they had snatched