have them down without your permission!"

But MacJannet, keeper of his Majesty's strong house of Stranryan, knew
that there was a time to be silent as well as a time to speak. He did
not speak, and the next minute tall ladders with ropes arranged from
their tops were reared at the word of command against both the gates.
The Garlies men swarmed up them and with sailorlike agility descended
into the big courtyard of the ancient Cassillis townhouse.

A moment more and the bars were drawn from within. The multitude swarmed
in without a sound. No cheer was heard, only the confused noise of many
feet and suppressed calls to this one and that to come and help to man
the scaling ladders. The young men of the town of Stranryan itself were
masked, since it was not fitting that sons of high magistrates should
hunt through all the building and wood yards, aye, and even the paternal
back-premises, to bring up ladders and forehammers to the fray. It had
been their duty to provide these things, and by Patsy's orders they were
taking no chances beyond the ordinary personal ones common to all
prison-breakers.

"MacJannet, MacJannet--open there, you lurking dog!"

But just then MacJannet was more than usually deaf. He knew that he
would have to answer for that night's work and it did not suit him to do
anything of his own accord. A pistol at his head and a demand for the
keys--well, that would be coercion, and when a man is compelled and put
in fear of his life, what can he do? But for the present MacJannet lay
safe and quiet behind his six-foot-thick walls and waited for that to
happen which should happen.

Torches began to flare smokily in the courtyard and ladders were hooked
to roof cornices. More ladders, tied safely together, were hoisted to
riggings of buildings and held in place by ropes conveniently cleeked
round chimneys. On these little dark figures climbed upwards, up and up
interminably, till they reached the grey hump of roof under which lay
the prisoners.

Picks and hammers went up from hand to hand, many helping. Fragments of
slate and tile began to rain down, but nothing had been achieved till
the blacksmith brigade, headed by Andrew Sproat of Clachanpluck, a
famous horse-shoer, laid into the iron-bound doors of the prison.

"Clang! Clang!" went the forehammers, as the men holding their torches
low made a circle of murky light about the workers. Every blow made the
doors leap, striking full on the huge lock. All w