ry it was the work of a human
being; but they also had very uncomfortable beds. That could not be
helped, however, for in some way or other at that moment their dwelling
was occupied, and they could not possibly enter it.

Now Granite House was more than their dwelling, it was their warehouse.
There were all the stores belonging to the colony, weapons, instruments,
tools, ammunition, provisions, etc. To think that all that might be
pillaged and that the settlers would have all their work to do over
again, fresh weapons and tools to make, was a serious matter. Their
uneasiness led one or other of them also to go out every few minutes to
see if Top was keeping good watch. Cyrus Harding alone waited with his
habitual patience, although his strong mind was exasperated at being
confronted with such an inexplicable fact, and he was provoked at
himself for allowing a feeling to which he could not give a name, to
gain an influence over him. Gideon Spilett shared his feelings in this
respect, and the two conversed together in whispers of the inexplicable
circumstance which baffled even their intelligence and experience.

"It is a joke," said Pencroft; "it is a trick some one has played us.
Well, I don't like such jokes, and the joker had better look out for
himself, if he falls into my hands, I can tell him."

As soon as the first gleam of light appeared in the east, the colonists,
suitably armed, repaired to the beach under Granite House. The rising
sun now shone on the cliff and they could see the windows, the shutters
of which were closed, through the curtains of foliage.

All here was in order; but a cry escaped the colonists when they saw
that the door, which they had closed on their departure, was now wide
open.

Some one had entered Granite House--there could be no more doubt about
that.

The upper ladder, which generally hung from the door to the landing,
was in its place, but the lower ladder was drawn up and raised to
the threshold. It was evident that the intruders had wished to guard
themselves against a surprise.

Pencroft hailed again.

No reply.

"The beggars," exclaimed the sailor. "There they are sleeping quietly
as if they were in their own house. Hallo there, you pirates, brigands,
robbers, sons of John Bull!"

When Pencroft, being a Yankee, treated any one to the epithet of "son of
John Bull," he considered he had reached the last limits of insult.

The sun had now completely risen, and the whol