A council of war was held. From their partially sheltered position the invaders could see, by the flashes of lightning, that a path and some steps ascended the hill. The duke was for storming the house at once, but Lord Cecil argued that it would be foolish to start before the storm abated. Moreover, he explained, it would be the height of folly to attack the house until they were sure that Penelope was on the inside. After many minutes there came a break in the violence of the storm and preparations were at once made for the climb up the hill. Deveaux was to remain behind in charge of the horses. With their bridle reins in his hands he cheerfully maintained this position of trust, securely sheltered from the full force of the elements. Right bravely did the duke and his lordship venture forth into the spattering rain. They had gone no more than three rods up the path when they were brought to a halt by the sounds of a prodigious struggle behind them. There was a great trampling of horses' hoofs, accompanied by the frantic shouts of the count. “I cannot hold zem! Mon Dieu! Zey are mad! Ho! Ho! Help!” He was in truth having a monstrous unpleasant time. His two friends stumbled to his assistance, but not in time to prevent the catastrophe. The three horses had taken it into their heads to bolt for home; they were plunging and pulling in three directions at the same time, the count manfully clinging to the bridle reins, in great danger of being suddenly and shockingly dismembered. “Hold to 'em!” shouted Lord Cecil. “Help!” shouted the count, at the same moment releasing his grip on the reins. Away tore the horses, kicking great chunks of mud over him as he tumbled aimlessly into the underbrush. Down the road clattered the animals, leaving the trio marooned in the wilderness. Groaning and half dead, the unfortunate count was dragged from the brush by his furious companions. What the duke said to him was sufficient without being repeated, here or elsewhere. The count challenged him as they all resumed the march up the hill to visit the house with the lighted windows. “Here is my card, m'sieur,” he grated furiously. “Demme, I know you!” roared the duke. “Keep your card and we'll send it in to announce our arrival to Shaw.” In due course of time, after many slips and falls, they reached the front yard of the house on the hillside. It was still raining lightly; the thunder and lightning were crashing away noisily farther up the valley. Cautiously they approached through the weeds and brush. “By Jove!” exclaimed his lordship, coming to a standstill. He turned the light of his lantern toward the front elevation of the house. “Every door and window, except these three, are boarded up. It can't be Shaw's home.” “That's right, old chap. Deuced queer, eh? I say, Deveaux, step up and pound on the door. You've got a card, you know.” “Que diable!” exclaimed the count, sinking into the background. “We might reconnoitre a bit,” said Bazelhurst.