toward him and press his lips to hers.

With a pealing crash the pickaxe bit into the stout oaken door, and
the young lovers sprang apart, terrified at this rude interruption
of dreams. Blow followed blow, and the massive woodwork shivered
and splintered and swayed under the savage impulse from without.

The assailants had abandoned their attempt on the postern; they had
ignored the kitchen door, within which stout Tom Neil with Dick's
double-barrel stood on guard; they had turned their attention to
the main entrance, where a projecting portico partially sheltered
them from the galling discharges of Jack's favourite "Rigby."

They were only partially sheltered, however. The heir of Lisnahoe
had quickly shifted his ground when the attack on the postern
was abandoned, and he now stood in another room, ready, with the
quickness of a practised snipe-shot, to fire on any arm or hand
or foot which showed even for an instant outside the shadow of the
portico.

Crash, crash, crash! Again and again the steel fangs of the pick
ate their way through the solid timber. The lock yielded quickly,
but, heavily barred at top and bottom, the good door resisted
staunchly. Polly had glided away from Harold's side. He fancied
that she had sought a place of safety, and rejoiced thereat; but
in a moment she reappeared. She carried a shot-gun in her hands,
and when she reached his side she rested the butt on the ground
and leaned on the weapon.

"I have often fired at things," she said, simply. "Why shouldn't