holding a
consultation, and then he pointed down to the beach.

"What's he pointing at?" said Kenneth, as his followers placed fresh
ammunition--the wet and the dry--ready.

"I know," cried Max. "That old bit of a mast."

"What, the broken topmast of the wreck?"

"Yes. They're going to fetch it, and make a battering-ram to knock down
the gate."

"Then we'll half drown the beggars," cried Kenneth. "More water here!
Cookie, let's have some hot."

"Hey, but ye shall have sax pots fu', Maister Kenneth," cried the woman,
and in a very short time, as the bailiffs men went down to get the old
spar, six kettles and saucepans of boiling water were brought up into
the old broken gateway tower.

"Pour it into the pails, and soften it down, Maxy. We mustn't give it
to 'em too hot," cried Kenneth.

"How much cold shall I put?"

"Half and half; that'll suit 'em. Shall I give 'em some whisky and
sugar with it, Grant?"

"Nay, nay," cried the old butler; "and don't make it too cold, or
there'll be no sting in it to frighten 'em."

"Now then, girls," cried Kenneth, "bring them along."

Everybody worked with a will, and plenty of missiles were carried up the
broken stone stairs and stored ready, Max making himself so busy, and
growing so excited, that Tavish patted him on the shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly, "'twas a gran' petty she were born so far sooth."

As for Scoodrach, he grew quite friendly, and grinned hugely at the way
in which Max took to the defence.

"It's a rare game, isn't it, Maxy?" cried Kenneth, in the temporary lull
of the attack.

"Game! I never enjoyed anything so much in my life. Shall we beat them
off?"

"Shall she peat 'em off!" cried Tavish fiercely. "She wull peat 'em
off! D'ye think ta children of ta Mackhai will let ta thieves come past
ta gates?"

"Hurray!" cried Kenneth; and Scoodrach tossed up his bonnet as he
shouted, and then nearly tumbled off the battlements as he tried to
catch the cap, and stood scratching his curly red head as the
woollen-tufted covering fell below.

"Hullo, Scood!" cried Max.

"It ton't matter," cried the gillie; "she can fecht petter withoot a
ponnet."

"Look at old Donald," whispered Max.

The pipes had ceased, and they looked up, to see the old man stooping in
a striking attitude, bareheaded and with his right hand shading his
eyes, one knee resting on the corner crenele of the tower, his left arm
grasping his pipes, while he watched the mo