house was lonely—her uncle had the reputation
of being well-to-do—they had pretended to be
belated, and had asked their way or something.
What a blessing that John Kirkby's cow was sick,
for there were several men watching with him.
She went back, opened her window, squeezed
herself out, slid down the lean-to roof, and
ran, barefoot and breathless, to the shippon.

"John, John, for the love of God come quick;
there's robbers in the house, and uncle and
aunt 'll be murdered!" she whispered, in terrified
accents, through the closed and barred shippon
door. In a moment it was undone, and John
and the cow-doctor stood there, ready to act, if
they but understood her rightly. Again she
repeated her words, with broken, half-unintelligible
explanations of what she as yet did not
rightly understand.

"Front door is open, say'st thou?" said John,
arming himself with a pitchfork, while the cow-
doctor took some other implement. "Then I
reckon we'd best make for that way o' getting
into th' house, and catch 'em all in a trap."

"Run! run!" was all Bessy could say,
taking hold of John Kirkby's arm, and pulling
him along with her. Swiftly did the three run
to the house, round the corner, and in at the open
front door. The men carried the horn lantern
they had been using in the shippon, and, by the
sudden oblong light that it threw upon objects,
Bessy saw the principal one of her anxiety, her
uncle, lying stunned and helpless on the kitchen
floor. Her first thought was for him; for she
had no idea that her aunt was in any immediate
danger, although she heard the noise of feet,
and fierce subdued voices up-stairs.

"Make th' door behind us, lass. We'll not
let them escape!" said brave John Kirkby,
dauntless in a good cause, though he knew not
how many there might be above. The cow-
doctor fastened and locked the door, saying,
"There!" in a defiant tone, as he put the key in
his pocket. It was to be a struggle for life or
for death, or, at any rate, for effectual capture
or desperate escape. Bessy kneeled down by
her uncle, who did not speak nor give any sign of
consciousness. Bessy raised his head by drawing
a pillow off the settle and putting it under
him; she longed to go for water into the back
kitchen, but the sound of a violent struggle, and of
heavy blows, and of low, hard curses spoken
through closed teeth, and muttered passion, as
though breath were too much needed for action to
be wasted in speech, kept her still and quiet by her
uncle's side in the kitchen, where the darkness
might almost be felt, so thick and deep was it.
Once—in a pause of her own heart's beating—a
sudden terror came over her; she perceived, in
that strange way in which the presence of a
living creature forces itself on our consciousness
in the darkest room, that some one was near her,
keeping as still as she. It was not the poor old
man's breathing that she heard, nor the radiation
of his presence that she felt: some one else was
in the kitchen; another robber, perhaps, left to
guard the old man with murderous intent if his
consciousness returned. Now, Bessy was fully
aware that self-preservation would keep her
terrible companion quiet, as there was no motive
for his betraying himself stronger than the desire
of escape; any effort for which he, the unseen
witness, must know would be rendered abortive
by the fact of the door being locked. Yet the
knowledge that he was there, close to her, still,
silent as the grave, with fearful, it might be
deadly, unspoken thoughts in his heart, possibly
even with keener and stronger sight than hers,
as longer accustomed to the darkness, able to
discern her figure and posture, and glaring at
her like some wild beast, Bessy could not fail to
shrink from the vision that her fancy presented.
And still the struggle went on up-stairs; feet
slipping, blows sounding, and the wrench of
intentioned aims, the strong gasps for breath, as
the wrestlers paused for an instant. In one of
these pauses Bessy felt conscious of a creeping
movement close to her, which ceased when the
noise of the strife above died away, and was
resumed when it again began. She was aware of
it by some subtle vibration of the air rather than
by touch or sound. She was sure that he who
had been close to her one minute as she knelt,
was, the next, passing stealthily towards the
inner door which led to the staircase. She
thought he was going to join and strengthen his
accomplices, and, with a great cry, she sprang
after him; but, just as she came to the doorway,
through which some dim portion of light from
the upper chambers came, she saw one man
thrown down stairs with such violence that he
fell almost at her very feet, while the dark, creeping
figure glided suddenly away to the left, and
as suddenly entered the closet beneath the stairs.
Bessy had no time to wonder as to his purpose
in so doing, whether he had at first designed to
aid his accomplices in their desperate fight. He
was an enemy, a robber, that was all she knew,
and she sprang to the door of the closet, and in
a trice had locked it on the outside. And then
she stood frightened, panting in that dark corner,
sick with terror lest the man who lay before her
was either John Kirkby or the cow-doctor. If it
were either of those friendly two, what would
become of the other—of her uncle, her aunt,
herself? But, in a very few minutes, this wonder
was ended; her two defenders came slowly and
heavily down the stairs, dragging with them a
man, fierce, sullen, despairing—disabled with
terrible blows, which had made his face one
bloody, swollen mass. As for that, neither John
nor the cow-doctor were much more presentable.
One of them bore the lantern in his teeth, for
all their strength was taken up by the weight of
the fellow they were bearing.

"Take care," said Bessy,from her corner; "there's
a chap just beneath your feet. I dunno if he's dead
or alive, and uncle lies on the floor just beyond."
They stood still on the stairs for a moment.
Just then the robber they had thrown down
stairs stirred and moaned.

"Bessy," said John, "run off to th' stable
and fetch ropes and gearing for to bind 'em, and
we'll rid the house on 'em, and thou can'st go
see after th' oud folks, who need it sadly."