"Heven without a gun, sir," said Henry to Stanhope, and his look was not such as a servant wears to his master, "we could lick a harmy of them chaps." "We could never do it!" cried Mr. Stanhope shrilly. The shouting outside, though still a discreet distance back, grew more articulate. Very fearful were their menaces. "Come out, Stanhope! Your time's come!" "We'll string yer to a tree, yer----" "Fellers, let's burn the damn rat out!" Stanhope's face went from white to pale green. He steadied himself against the table with a hand that quivered, and looked at Varney. "It's--it's you they want," he said. "O my Gawd," cried Henry and put his face into his hands. "Yes," said Varney, averting his eyes also, "it's I they want." And he started for the door. But Henry, who had noted the marked resemblance between the two men and had caught faint glimmerings of what these strange things meant, barred his way with an immortal rejoinder. "Hif you please, sir, Stanhope was the name they called." Varney gave a tired laugh. His terrible headache made him chafe at any prolonging of the scene. Moreover, it made rational thought difficult, twisting common-sense into fanciful shapes. It seemed to him an unendurable thing that he should protect himself under the wing of such a man as Stanhope; and the thought of fierce action drew him like a lodestone. "You're a good fellow, Henry," he said quietly. "However, your master and I agree perfectly." But at that moment, the small window at the back of the room, which no one had thought to fasten, flew open and a man slipped nimbly through it--a big, hard-breathing, iron-faced man, with perspiration streaming rivers down his sun-tanned cheeks. Mr. Stanhope, with a weak exclamation, moved so as to bring the table between himself and the intruder. Varney's eyes grew suddenly anxious. "Thank God, you're safe, Larry!" gasped Peter, looking hurriedly about him, and characteristically asking no questions. "Four of us! Magnificent! We can hold this room for a year against those drunken sheep...." The din outside grew deafening. One man, braving Henry's threat, had made a bolt across the star-lit space to the house, and no shot had rung out from the upstairs window. Others had instantly followed, and the little front porch now echoed under many feet. Yet, boisterous as they were, the mobbers seemed to hesitate at taking the front door at a rush, as though fearful of what reception might await them in the dark and silent hall beyond. But now a stone crashed through a front window downstairs, and a man's voice rang out suddenly so close that it seemed to be inside the parlor: "One minute to come out fair in the open, Stanhope, or we'll set a light to this house, so help us God!" Mr. Stanhope gave a low cry. "Call to them, Henry!" he ordered, wildly. "Quick! Tell them I'm coming out this minute." Henry, his back against the door, did not stir. "_Hare_ you goin' out, sir?"