ho stood in the yard
could hear them leap on their hinges.

"'Tis the bolts that are holding--can't you feel them draw?" cried
Andrew, the smith. "Bring all the hammers to one side! Now for it!
Strike a little lower there!" And the three great forehammers struck so
accurately that the lock gave way with a grinding crunch. The doors hung
only by the bolts at top and bottom. Soon the aperture was so widened
that a hand could be introduced and the iron rods shot back. The gates
of the prison on the sea-front were thrown back and with the same
silence as before the crowd poured in--all, that is, except the
unfortunates, chosen by lot, who had been designated to look after the
horses.

"MacJannet--MacJannet--the keys, MacJannet!"

The gaoler's quarters were swiftly invaded. One blow of Andrew Sproat's
massy hammer did that business, and thereafter the gaoler did not lack
for coercion. Godfrey McCulloch had a pistol to his head, and the bell
mouth of a huge blunderbuss lay chill between his shoulder-blades,
thrusting him forward.

"Open every cell!" he was ordered by Godfrey McCulloch. "We must have
them all out. There are torches and the old place might take light. The
wood is sure to be as dry as tinder after four centuries!"

And the lads of the "Bands" let the prisoners go, every man and woman of
them. Only some Irish reapers clamouring for their reaping-hooks to be
returned to them were pitched neck and crop into the street with small
consideration and few apologies. And still they pressed on! Above them
the hammering on the roof could be heard. It ceased, and it was evident
that the gaol from dungeon to rooftree was in the power of the "Lads of
the Heather."

But still no Stair Garland! The brows of the seekers grew black.

"If ye have sent him away secretly with the soldier men, 'ware yourself,
MacJannet," said Godfrey, "we will roast you in your own black keep. We
will gar your accursed Castle of the Press flame like a chimbly on fire,
as sure as we came out of Rerrick!"

"He is here--I tell you--there is one of them, at any rate!" He threw
open the door of a cell triumphantly and showed the pallid countenance
of Eben the Spy.

For one instant the multitude stood silent, then with a howl of anger
and disappointment they were flinging themselves upon him.

"Tear him to pieces!--Kill the spy. Who sent our Davie to the hulks?"

But Patsy's voice cried, "Back there, men! He has bought his pardon. He
was with