ld think, hesitate, in their
own interest, before falling foul of you."

"You don't understand them as I do," says the squire, slowly.

"I still think peace, and not war, should be instilled into them," says
Brian. "Too many landlords are harsh and unyielding in an aggravated
degree, when a little persuasion and a few soft words would smooth
matters. They, of course, are visited with the revenge of the League,
whilst such as you escape."

These complacent words are still upon his lips, he has had time to lean
back in his chair with the languid air of one who has given to the world
views not admitting of contradiction, when a sharp whirring noise is
heard, followed by a crash of broken glass and the dull thud of a bullet
that has found its home in the wall right opposite the squire. Right
opposite Brian, too, for they had been side by side with Owen Kelly,
fortunately not _quite_, but very nearly, opposite.

For a moment nobody quite knows what has happened, so sudden is the
thing; and then they spring to their feet, full of the knowledge that a
bullet has been fired into their midst.

It had passed right over The Desmond's shoulder, close to his ear,
_between_ him and Brian, and had grazed the sleeve of Kelly's coat, who,
as I have said, was sitting _almost_ opposite.

With an oath Brian rushes to the window, tears open the shutters, throws
up the sash, and jumps down into the garden, followed by Kelly and the
Squire.

It is a dark night, murky and heavy with dense rain-laden clouds, and so
black as to render it impossible to see one's hand before one. Search
after a while is found to be impossible and the cowardly would-be
assassin so far is safe from arrest. Dispirited and indignant, they
return to the room they left, to discuss the outrage.

"Now, who will preach to me of peace again?" says the squire turning to
Brian a face pale with excitement.

"Not I," says Brian, with a face pale as his own, and eyes that burn
fiercely with the wrath of an incomplete revenge.

"I retract every foolish word I said a few minutes since. Henceforth it
shall be war to the knife between me and my tenantry, as well as yours."

"War to the bullet would be more in harmony," says Mr. Kelly, seriously.
He has extracted the bullet in question from the wall with the aid of a
stout penknife, and is now regarding it mournfully as it lies in the
palm of his hand. "Don't you think they take a very unfair advantage of
you?" he says,