ens her. She has heard of the "fighting Blakes," and
she begins to understand that even yet the old spirit has not died out
in the race.

He sees her, but he makes no effort to send her away. In this supreme
hour of trial the love of his heart recognizes her right to be with him
even if it should be the bitter end.

"Go back, Miss Honor!" some one shouts. "Shure, we would not hurt a
hair of your head!"

But the girl smiles coldly. She has no fear for herself; her one care,
her one dread is for the safety of those others, who are dearer to her
a thousand-fold than her own safety.

The men talk fast and furiously, but she hardly hears their words. She
is waiting for what must come after, when all their threats have
failed, as she knows so well they will fail.

They demand arms--with which they know the house to be well supplied.
"Give them arms, and they will go in peace, for the present, squire,"
one man adds, with menacing emphasis.

For answer Robert Blake raises his right arm, and they see the muzzle
of a revolver; and now a louder and more angry cry comes from the crowd.

"You know me, James Phelan," the squire says calmly, addressing an old
tenant whose voice he has recognized; "tell these men that I am a dead
shot, and I will fire if they come a yard nearer."

For an instant the crowd sways back, then it rallies. Those behind push
the front rows mercilessly forward. The men are thoroughly excited
now--there are more of them than at first appeared--and Honor feels
that the next few moments will decide her fate and that of those dear
to her.

Suddenly the great hall lamp falls to the floor with a crash, and the
whole place is in profound darkness. For an instant the men, pressing
toward their prey, pause, afraid, it may be, of a stray bullet striking
them in the obscurity.

Then a loud shout is raised, and the hall, the stairs, the corridors
are filled with a struggling, panting, furious mob.

Honor feels herself lifted out of the crowd, and let down inside the
library, close to the door.

"Don't move for your life, and don't speak!" a voice says softly, close
to her cheek, and then she is alone; and, save for the lightning that
illumines the room almost every moment, she is in darkness.

Outside there are loud hoarse cries, heavy blows, and trampling feet,
the indescribable horror and confusion of a fierce fight fought with
blind rage on both sides.

It cannot be that her father and Horace--for on