“But not enough,” grumbled Longsword. “It hardly cut the skin of him.”
“Try for him, once more, with this,” and Ethan offered Shamus his own pistol. The Irishman was a wonderful shot with these awkward weapons; but the range caused him to shake his head.
“Too late,” said he. “It’d take a musket to find a man at that distance.”
The sound of the shot had the effect of arousing the house; a window was thrown open above, a night-capped head was protruded, while a pair of sleep heavy eyes blinked down at them in the pale light of the dawn.
“Hello,” cried the owner of the night cap in a husky sort of bellow. “What’s wanted below there?”
“Arrah, come down wid ye and open the door,” requested Longsword with great promptness.
“And have myself killed for my trouble,” said the man at the window.
“Ye’ll get yourself killed if you don’t do as you’re told, my friend,” said Longsword with a reckless flourish of his empty pistol. The man withdrew his head with a jerk; and though they continued to call to him, he refused to show himself.
“Down with the door,” cried Ethan at last. And putting their shoulders to it they sent it crashing inward. There now came a perfect storm of screams and yells from the regions above.
They found themselves in a room in which a sea coal fire was burning; after a short search Ethan found a couple of fat pine billets which he stuck partly into the fire. While they awaited such time as the torches should ignite, they stood in the broken doorway and looked earnestly toward the town. The noises from the rooms above had died away; and now a long, low murmur as of many voices was carried to their ears by the wind, which was toward the harbor. With each moment the sound increased in volume; it would rise sharply and then fall away, only to rise once more.