"Indade! An' phwat do they mane wakin' up honest people this dead o' the night, axin' the loike o' that?" demanded his wife, shrilly. "Get the gun, Pat, an' shoot the dirty thaves!"
Pat, shaking with excitement or fear, in a low, tremulous voice, inaudible to those without, reminded his spouse that the gun had been loaned out and was no longer there.
"An' bad luck to the man that borrowed it!" cried the undaunted Maggie. "It's betther used to shoot raiders with thin hawks."
"Get us an axe!" commanded the spokesman of the band, rapping sharply on the door.
"It's out at the wood pile beyant the house," answered Pat, meekly.
"Hush, you fool!" cried his wife, shrilly. "Phwat did ye tell 'em for? I'd 'a' seen the last wan o' thim to the divil first, where they'll go quick enough."
Two of the raiders went in search of the axe, and soon its dull blows were heard on the hard, seasoned wood of one of the poles, while the sound of the cutting seemed to infuriate Maggie as nothing else had done.
She sprang out of bed like a wildcat in nimbleness, and it took all the strength and persuasion that Pat could muster to keep her from opening the door and coming out into the midst of the raiders.
"Whist, darlint! Be aisy, for the love of hiven!" implored her frightened spouse. "Ye'll bring down the wrath o' the whole gang on us wid sich wild cacklin'. Be quiet!"
"Be quiet, indade! An' let thim prowlin' thaves cut down the poles an' take away our livin'? Not much!" cried Maggie, fiercely. "If I only had a gun, I'd loike to shoot the last wan o' thim—the dirty blackguards!"