This time his followers obeyed, and they made a rush, to be received by a tremendous volley, which produced first blood, Scoodrach having sent a big Dalmahoy or a Scotch Regent—this is a doubtful point in the chronicle of the attack and defence of Dunroe—and hit one of the bailiff’s men full in the nose, one of Max’s shots taking effect at the same time in a man’s eye, and the first of the wounded staggered back to the hospital ambulance; in other words, he bolted down the rocks to the water’s edge and began to bathe his face.
Another shout, though, from the bailiff, and the assaulting party charged home right up to the gateway, and began to thunder and thrust at the crumbling old gates, which were, however, held fast by the wooden props and stones.
“We can’t get through here,” grumbled one man. “Is there no other way?”
“No, not without a latter,” said another.
“Then let’s fetch a latter.”
“No, no; push all together, and down the gates will go. They can’t hit us here.”
Squish, splash, wash, came down a perfect torrent of water through the machicolations, as what Kenneth called “the boiling lead” was brought to bear through the openings left by the old architect for the defence of the gate.
“No, no, no; don’t rin!” cried the bailiff; “it’s only watter.”
Plosh!
Half a pailful poured down by Max came full upon the speaker’s head, and he turned and headed the stampede, amidst the roars of laughter of the defenders.