Miriam had scarcely risen from her knees, and her heart was still going up in earnest pleadings for help from on high, when the report of the pistol struck her ear.
“What was that?” she asked herself. “Some one shooting at a mark, perhaps; it is not the time of year for hunting game.”
She remained a few moments longer in her room, then, at the call to tea, descended the stairs to the lower hall. Just as she reached it the more startling and alarming sounds made by the mob began to be heard.
“Oh, what is it? what is happening in Prairieville?” she exclaimed, rushing into the dining-room, where the other members of the family were already gathered.
Her grandmother stood listening with pale, excited face, little Olive clinging to her skirts with affrighted looks, while Ronald and McAllister exchanged glances of surprise and inquiry, and Bertie tried to conceal his alarm by assuming an air of manly unconcern, though his young heart beat fast and the color had left his cheek.
McAllister was the first to reply to Miriam’s question.
“Dinna be fashed, Miss Mirry,” he said; “I ken the soun’ weel, for I hae heard it afore; it’s the roaring and raging o’ a mob o’ infuriated men. Belike thae hae caught ane or more o’ the burglars, and are takin’ justice into their ain hands. The soun’s we hear bode ill to some ane; but it canna be you or yours.”
“That shot, then, you think was intended for a man?” said Ronald.
“Na doot, sir! It may be that Phelim O’Rourke has broken jail. I ken he’d be vary likely to be shot doon by some o’ them he’s robbed and tried to murder, sooner than he’d ’scape to do mair o’ the same kin’ o’ mischief.”
Phelim O’Rourke was at that moment in his cell, listening as intently as they to the ominous sounds—listening with paling cheek and dilated eyes, while standing at the grated window, vainly striving to get a view of what was going on far down the street.