There was a few moments’ silence, and then the captain said sharply: “Norman—Tim, lift out the bar. Rifle, be ready with your piece, and fire at once if an attack is made. Don’t lift out the shutter, Norman, till I say ‘Now!’”
Norman made no reply, for much of his training had been tinged with military discipline. He lifted out the bar, and set it down, then he and Tim took hold of the shutter, while Rifle stood ready with his fowling-piece, listening intently, though, to his father, who was whispering to Shanter.
“Now!” said the captain, sharply. The shutter was lifted out, the boys felt the captain and Shanter push by them; there was a strange rustling sound, a yell from many voices close at hand, and the shutter was thrust back in its place, but would not go home.
Bang, bang! Two sharp reports from Rifle’s piece, which was then dragged back and the shutter glided into the opening, but was driven right in the boys’ faces by what seemed to be half a dozen heavy blows. Then it was pushed in its place again, and the bar dropped across.
“Were those club blows, father?” panted Norman.
“No, boy, spears thrown at the window. Well done, lads; you were very prompt. It was risky to open the shutter, but we could not keep that poor wretch here. Hark!”
A low muttering and groaning, then a yell or two, came from outside, chilling the boys’ blood; and Rifle stood there, his face and hands wet with cold perspiration, listening in horror.
“Gun fellow plenty hurt,” said Shanter, with a satisfied laugh.
“Yes,” said the captain, with a sigh; “some of those swan-shot of yours, boy, have told. But load, load! And Heaven grant that this may be a lesson to them, and you will not need to fire again.”
“Ned!” cried Uncle Jack, in a low voice.