“But—but,” said Denis, stammering, “I’m not accustomed to guns. I’ve never had a revolver in my hand in my life. I’m—I’m afraid of it!”
He spoke the literal truth. He had never handled firearms of any sort, and a revolver in the hands of an inexperienced man is of all weapons the most dangerous. Nevertheless, with Murnihan’s eye upon him, with the ring of anxious, threatening faces round him, he took the revolver.
An hour later, eight men walked quietly up to the Drennan’s house. They wore black masks. Their clothes and figures were rudely but sufficiently disguised with wisps of hay tied to their arms and legs. Two of them carried revolvers. At the gate of the rough track which leads from the high road to the farmhouse the party halted. There was a whispered word of command. Two men detached themselves and stood as sentries on the road. Six men, keeping in the shadow of the trees, went forward to the house. A single light gleamed in one of the windows. Murnihan knocked at the door. There was no response. He knocked again. The light moved from the window through which it shone, and disappeared. Once more Murnihan knocked. A woman’s voice was heard.
“Who’s there at this time of night?”
“In the name of the Irish Republic, open the door!” said Murnihan. “Open, or I’ll break it down!”
“You may break it if you please!” It was Mrs. Drennan who spoke. “But I’ll not open to thieves and murderers!”
The door of an Irish farmhouse is a frail thing ill-calculated to withstand assault. Murnihan flung himself against it, and it yielded. He stepped into the kitchen with his revolver in his hand. Denis Ryan was beside him. Behind him were the other four men pressing in. In the chimney nook, in front of the still glowing embers of the fire, were Mrs. Drennan and her daughter. Mary stood, fearlessly, holding a candle in a steady hand. Mrs. Drennan was more than fearless. She was defiant. She had armed herself with a long-handled hay-fork, which she held before her threateningly, as a soldier holds a rifle with a bayonet fixed.
“Put up your hands and stand still,” said Murnihan, “both of you!”
“Put up your hands!” said Denis, and he pointed the revolver at Mrs. Drennan.
The old woman was undaunted.