“You murdering blackguards!” she shouted. “Would you shoot a woman?”
Then she rushed at him, thrusting with the hay-fork. Denis stepped back, and back again, until he stood in the doorway. One of the sharp prongs of the hay-fork grazed his hand, and slipped up his arm tearing his skin. Involuntarily, his hand clutched the revolver. His forefinger tightened on the trigger. There was a sharp explosion. The hay-fork dropped from Mrs. Drennan’s hand. She flung her arms up, half turned, and then collapsed, all crumpled up, to the ground.
Mary Drennan sprang forward and bent over her.
There was dead silence in the room. The men stood horror-stricken, mute, helpless. They had intended—God knows what. To fight for liberty! To establish an Irish Republic! To prove themselves brave patriots! They had not intended this. The dead woman lay on the floor before their eyes, her daughter bent over her. Denis Ryan stood for a moment staring wildly, the hand which held the revolver hanging limp. Then he slowly raised his other hand and held it before his eyes.
Mary Drennan moaned.
“We’d better clear out of this!” said Murnihan. He spoke in a low tone, and his voice trembled.
“Clear out of this, all of you!” he said, “And get home as quick as you can. Go across the fields, not by the roads!”
The men stole out of the house. Only Denis and Murnihan were left, and Mary Drennan, and the dead woman. Murnihan took Denis by the arm and dragged him towards the door. Denis shook him off. He turned to where Mary kneeled on the ground. He tore the mask from his face and flung it down.
“Oh, Mary, Mary!” he said. “I never meant it!”
The girl looked up. For an instant her eyes met his. Then she bent forward again across her mother’s body. Murnihan grasped Denis again.