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Updated: June 3, 2025
Clubs and blunderbusses dropped from nerveless hands as the advancing mob paused, faltered, and then surged backward through the doorway. The lust of vengeance gave way to the instinct of self-preservation, and the rioters scattered in flight. Dick's gallant race against time had not been fruitless. A squadron of constabulary had reached the ground at the critical moment, and Lisnahoe was saved.
The judicial inquiry into the casualties brought out details of the defence which struck terror to the hearts of the country people. It was not likely that Lisnahoe would be molested again. Harold Hayes and Polly Connolly were married shortly after Easter. They are living in New York now, in a pleasant flat overlooking Central Park.
Before long next day probably he would be handed over to the tender mercies of Jack, who had constantly lamented the occupations that prevented his paying proper attention to his guest. The heir of Lisnahoe had promised to show the young stranger some "real good sport" as soon as other duties would permit. That time was close at hand now.
It was nearly seven o'clock when, tired and mud-bespattered, he reached Lisnahoe; but the warmth of his reception there went far to banish all recollection of the discomforts of his solitary tramp. Then came introductions to the rest of the family. Mr. Connolly, stout and white-haired, bade him welcome in a voice which owned more than a touch of Tipperary brogue. Mrs.
This question was asked with a vehemence that startled the young American. "Lisnahoe. Don't you know the way?" he replied. "In troth an' I do. Is it Connolly's?" "Yes," answered Harold. "Drive on, my good fellow; it's growing late." The man's only answer was to spring from his seat and seize Harold's portmanteau, which he deposited on the road with no gentle hand.
Half a dozen hack-drivers were already extolling the merits of their various conveyances, and imploring his patronage. Selecting the best-looking car, he swung himself into his seat, while the "jarvey" hoisted his portmanteau on the other side. "Where to, yer honour?" inquired the latter, climbing to his place. "To Lisnahoe House," answered Hayes. "Where?"
The heir of Lisnahoe had quickly shifted his ground when the attack on the postern was abandoned, and he now stood in another room, ready, with the quickness of a practised snipe-shot, to fire on any arm or hand or foot which showed even for an instant outside the shadow of the portico. Crash, crash, crash! Again and again the steel fangs of the pick ate their way through the solid timber.
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