rd
of command. Two men detached themselves and stood as sentries on the
road. Six men, keeping in the shadow of the trees, went forward to the
house. A single light gleamed in one of the windows. Murnihan knocked at
the door. There was no response. He knocked again. The light moved from
the window through which it shone, and disappeared. Once more Murnihan
knocked. A woman's voice was heard.

"Who's there at this time of night?"

"In the name of the Irish Republic, open the door!" said Murnihan.
"Open, or I'll break it down!"

"You may break it if you please!" It was Mrs. Drennan who spoke. "But
I'll not open to thieves and murderers!"

The door of an Irish farmhouse is a frail thing ill-calculated to
withstand assault. Murnihan flung himself against it, and it yielded. He
stepped into the kitchen with his revolver in his hand. Denis Ryan
was beside him. Behind him were the other four men pressing in. In the
chimney nook, in front of the still glowing embers of the fire, were
Mrs. Drennan and her daughter. Mary stood, fearlessly, holding a candle
in a steady hand. Mrs. Drennan was more than fearless. She was defiant.
She had armed herself with a long-handled hay-fork, which she held
before her threateningly, as a soldier holds a rifle with a bayonet
fixed.

"Put up your hands and stand still," said Murnihan, "both of you!"

"Put up your hands!" said Denis, and he pointed the revolver at Mrs.
Drennan.

The old woman was undaunted.

"You murdering blackguards!" she shouted. "Would you shoot a woman?"

Then she rushed at him, thrusting with the hay-fork. Denis stepped back,
and back again, until he stood in the doorway. One of the sharp prongs
of the hay-fork grazed his hand, and slipped up his arm tearing his
skin. Involuntarily, his hand clutched the revolver. His forefinger
tightened on the trigger. There was a sharp explosion. The hay-fork
dropped from Mrs. Drennan's hand. She flung her arms up, half turned,
and then collapsed, all crumpled up, to the ground.

Mary Drennan sprang forward and bent over her.

There was dead silence in the room. The men stood horror-stricken, mute,
helpless. They had intended--God knows what. To fight for liberty! To
establish an Irish Republic! To prove themselves brave patriots! They
had not intended this. The dead woman lay on the floor before their
eyes, her daughter bent over her. Denis Ryan stood for a moment staring
wildly, the hand which held the revolver hanging lim