med
with a strange ammunition, marches into the hostile land.

"Did ye hear, miss? Oh, faix, there's terrible news, ma'am!" says old
Timothy, trotting into the breakfast-room at Moyne the following
morning, his face pale with excitement.

"You alarm me, Ryan! what is it?" says Miss Priscilla, laying down her
fork.

"Oh, it's beyant everything, ma'am! Oh, the blackguards o' the world! It
was last night, miss, it happened. The ould squire, there below, was
sittin' in his library, as paceable as ye plaze, ma'am, when they fired
a bullet at him, an' shot him an' wounded Misther Brian----No, be the
powers, I b'lave I'm wrong; they kilt Misther Brian an' wounded the
Squire; an' there's the greatest commotion ye iver see down below,
miss."

For one awful moment Monica thinks she is going to faint. A mist rises
between her and Timothy's face; his voice sounds far away, in the next
county as it were, and then ceases altogether. Then a sharp sting of
pain rushing through her veins rouses her, and sends the blood back with
a tumultuous haste to cheek and neck and brow. The pain is short but
effective, and is, indeed, nothing more than a pinch of a pronounced
type, administered by the watchful Kit, with a promptitude very
creditable to her.

"He is exaggerating," says the astute Kit, in a subdued whisper
apparently addressed to her plate. "Don't believe him; take courage;
and, at all events, remember their eyes are upon you!" Her tone is great
with mystery and kindly encouragement. More revived by it than even by
the pinch, Monica takes heart of grace, and listens with maddening
impatience for what is yet to come. Glancing at Miss Priscilla, she can
see that her aunt is as pale as death, and that her hands are trembling
excessively. Miss Penelope is looking with anxiety at her, whilst trying
to elicit the truth from Ryan.

"Collect yourself, Ryan," she says, severely. "Who was killed?"

"No one outright, I'm tould, miss,--but----"

"Then who is wounded?"

"The bullet went right through them, miss."

"Through _both_! But that is impossible. I must beg you again to collect
yourself, Timothy; all this is most important, and naturally Miss
Blake--that is, _we_--are much upset about it. Through whom did the
bullet go?"

"The ould squire an' his nephew, miss."

"Through their bodies?" cries Miss Penelope, throwing up hope and both
her hands at the same time.

"No, ma'am, jist between them, as it might be between you