ed up and down, blasting at the good braggart air of "Baile
Inneraora."

Those snorting, wailing, warring pipes mingled oddly with the shout of
the fighting men, who had ways of battle new to me in practice though
they were in a sense my own countrymen. Gaelic slogans and maledictions
they shouted, and when one of them fell in the mob, his immediate
comrades never failed to stop short in their charge and coolly rob him
of a silver button from his coat, or a weapon if it seemed worth while.

In a little they were soon clamouring against our wall. We laughed and
prodded them off with the long-handed axes to get free play with the
fusils, and one after another of them fell off, wounded or dead.

"This is the greatest folly ever I saw," said Sir Donald, wiping his
brow with a bloody hand.

"I wish I was sure there was no trick in it," said John. He was looking
around him and taking a tug at his belt, that braced him by a couple of
holes. Then he spat, for luck, on a ball he dropped into his fusil, said
a Glassary charm on it as he rammed home the charge and brought the butt
to his cheek, aiming at a white-faced Irisher with a leathern waistcoat,
who fell backward into a dub of mud and stirred no more.

"Four!" said John; "I could scarcely do better with my own French fusil
Main Og."

The enemy drew off at a command of their captain, and into the edge of
the wood that came up on the left near our summit. We lost our interest
in them for a time, watching a man running up the little valley from the
right, above Kilmalieu. He came on waving his arms wildly and pointing
ahead; but though he was plain to our view, he was out of sight of the
enemy on the left.

A long black coat hampered his movements, and he looked gawky enough,
stumbling through the rushes.

"If I didn't think the inside of Castle Inneraora was too snug to quit
for a deadly hillside," said John, "I could believe yon was our friend
the English minister."

"The English minister sure enough!" said half-a-dozen beside us.

"Here's ill-luck for us then!" cried John, with irony. "He'll preach us
to death: the fellow's deadlier than the Clanranald ban ditty."

Some one ran to the post beside the governor's house, and let the
gentleman in when he reached it. He was panting like a winded hound, the
sweat standing in beads on his shaven jowl, and for a minute or two
he could say nothing, only pointing at the back of our fort in the
direction of the town.

"