"Lights—here," he said again. "Of course, nothing may happen, but that's not your fault, is it?" He seized the candle.
The door banged. This language from a detected criminal had bereft Gheena of speech.
She put the poker back slowly, to start in real fear, for, as if conjured up by the speck of light, voices sounded, rang in anger, bare and almost animal-like in its sound, and came the paff-paff of revolver shots—then silence—then voices again.
"Safe and sound we has him, an' I near to be shot"—this was the voice of Thomas Hassett, one of the coastguards—"safe and sound with the stroke Ned Murphy drew on him."
Ned Murphy was the village sergeant.
Gheena adjusted her blanket and took out the poker absently, her face very white.
They—had caught Basil Stafford—other people were on the watch. It was all over now.
Paff-paff—more shots, the noise of running feet, a yell of someone in pain.
"God save us! the arrum is hanging on ye, Misther Stafford," said a sympathetic voice; "an' who could belt away for the docther as quick as ye could yerself in ye're cyar?"
"They to come along to the wrong sphot, when ye were afther bringin' in Miss Gheena, an' we only three. Will I run a taste ov rope around the cross one, sir? He is lively."