Once again the house was aroused; once again every sleeper sprung out of bed, in terror, wonder, and consternation.
“Oh, holy saints! what is that? Oh, good heavens! what can that be at this time?” came simultaneously from every lip.
Knock! knock! knock! Rap! rap! rap! louder and louder still.
Every girl flitted from her room, and a universal rush was made for the apartments of Mrs. Moodie—all but the inmates of the dormitory. Miss Sharpe was too terrified to stir, and the children, following her lead, contented themselves with lying still, and renewing their screams where they had left them off an hour or so before.
Now Mrs. Moodie, half-distracted, rushed out, and encountered her forty terrified pupils in the hall.
“Oh, Mrs. Moodie! what has happened to-night? We will all be killed! Oh, listen to that!”
Knock! knock! knock! knock! knock! The clamor was deafening.
“We had better open the door, or they will break it down!” said Mrs. Moodie, her teeth chattering with terror.
“Send for Bridget; she is afraid of nothing!” suggested one of the trembling girls.
Two or three of the most courageous made a rush for the kitchen; and Bridget—a strapping nymph of five feet nine, and “stout according”—was routed out of bed, to storm the breech.