“No!” yelled Scoodrach; “she’ll fecht till she ties. Come on!”
“All right,” said the bailiff, turning to his men, who had once more got the spar on their shoulders. “No, no,” he said; “half of you get one side, half the other, and swing it by your hands. Keep step, and run with it against the gate. The rotten old wood will fly like tinder.”
The men obeyed, got the spar, which was about twenty feet long, well swung between them, and stood ready.
“Now, when I say ‘go!’” cried the bailiff, “off with you at a good run, down with the gate, and rush in. I shall be close behind. Ready? Go!”
The men started, but they did not keep step, and before they had reached the gate, not only were they in confusion, but, amidst the shrieking of the pipes and the shouts and cheers of the defenders, they were met by such a storm of missiles, that, after bearing up against it for a few moments, they again dropped the great spar, and ran back.
This movement was the signal for a roar of derisive cheers, the boys indulging in quite a war-dance, which was ended by Scoodrach standing on his head upon one of the creneles, as a sign of his contempt for the enemy.
It was a dangerous feat, and he would have overbalanced himself, had not his father caught hold of one of his legs and dragged him back.
“What are ye gaun to dae?” he growled.
“Here, Scood, go and fetch the dining-room—no, you go, Grant—the table-cover, and that old long spear out of the hall.”
The old butler smiled grimly, and began to descend from the broken rampart to the courtyard.