‘Take care,’ said Nina to Walpole as he passed, but with an accent so full of a strange significance it dwelt on his memory long after. ‘What was it Nina whispered you as you came by?’ said Kate. ‘Something about being cautious, I think,’ said he carelessly. ‘Stay where you are, Mathew,’ said the girl, in a severe tone, to the old servant, who was officiously pressing forward with a light. ‘Go back!’ cried she, as he persisted in following her. ‘That’s the worst of all our troubles here, Mr. Walpole,’ said she boldly; ‘you cannot depend on the people of your own household. The very people you have nursed in sickness, if they only belong to some secret association, will betray you!’ She made no secret of her words, but spoke them loud enough to be heard by the group of servants now gathered on the landing. Noiseless she tripped down the stairs, and passed into the little dark alcove, followed by Walpole, carrying any amount of guns and carbines under his arm. ‘These are loaded, I presume?’ said he. ‘All, and ready capped. The short carbine is charged with a sort of canister shot, and keep it for a short range--if they try to pass over the iron gate. Now mind me, and I will give you the directions I heard my father give on this spot once before. Don’t fire till they reach the foot of the stair.’ ‘I cannot hear you,’ said he, for the din beneath, where they battered at the door, was now deafening. ‘They’ll be in in another moment--there, the lock has fallen off--the door has given way,’ whispered she; ‘be steady now, no hurry--steady and calm.’ As she spoke, the heavy oak door fell to the ground, and a perfect silence succeeded to the late din. After an instant, muttering whispers could be heard, and it seemed as if they doubted how far it was safe to enter, for all was dark within. Something was said in a tone of command, and at the moment one of the party flung forward a bundle of lighted straw and tow, which fell at the foot of the stairs, and for a few seconds lit up the place with a red lurid gleam, showing the steep stair and the iron bars of the little gate that crossed it. ‘There’s the iron wicket they spoke of,’ cried one. ‘All right, come on!’ And the speaker led the way, cautiously, however, and slowly, the others after him. ‘No, not yet,’ whispered Kate, as she pressed her hand upon Walpole’s. ‘I hear voices up there,’ cried the leader from below. ‘We’ll make them leave that, anyhow.’ And he fired off his gun in the direction of the upper part of the stair; a quantity of plaster came clattering down as the ball struck the ceiling. ‘Now,’ said she. ‘Now, and fire low!’