An iron cresset, charged with coarse rancid oil, hung from the roof, the dull smoky red light flickering on the dead corpse, as the breeze streamed in through the door and numberless chinks in the walls, making the cold, rigid, sharp features appear to move, and glimmer, and gibber as it were, from the changing shades.  Close to the head there was a small door opening into an apartment of some kind, but the coffin was placed so near it that one could pass between the body and the door.

“My good man,” said Treenail to the solitary mourner, “I must beg leave to remove the body a bit, and have the goodness to open that door.”

“Door, yere honour!  It’s no door o’ mine—­and it’s not opening that same that old Phil Carrol shall busy himself wid.”

“Carline,” said Mr. Treenail, quick and sharp, “remove the body.”  It was done.

“Cruel heavy the old dame is, sir, for all her wasted appearance,” said one of the men.

The lieutenant now ranged the press-gang against the wall fronting the door, and stepping into the middle of the room, drew his pistol and cocked it.  “Messmates,” he sang out, as if addressing the skulkers in the other room, “I know you are here; the house is surrounded—­and unless you open that door now, by the powers, but I’ll fire slap into you!” There was a bustle, and a rumbling tumbling noise within.  “My lads, we are now sure of our game,” sang out Treenail, with great animation; “sling that clumsy bench there.”  He pointed to an oaken form about eight feet long and nearly three inches thick.  To produce a two-inch rope, and junk it into three lengths, and rig the battering ram, was the work of an instant.  “One, two, three,”—­and bang the door flew open, and there were our men stowed away, each sitting on the top of his bag, as snug as could be, although looking very much like condemned thieves.  We bound eight of them, thrusting a stretcher across their backs, under their arms, and lashing the fins to the same by good stout lanyards, we were proceeding to stump our prisoners off to the boat, when, with the innate deviltry that I have inherited, I know not how, but the original sin of which has more than once nearly cost me my life, I said, without addressing my superior officer, or any one else directly, “I should like now to scale my pistol through that coffin.  If I miss, I can’t hurt the old woman; and an eyelet hole in the coffin itself will only be an act of civility to the worms.”

I looked towards my superior officer, who answered me with a knowing shake of the head.  I advanced, while all was silent as death—­the sharp click of the pistol lock now struck acutely on my own ear.  I presented, when—­crash—­the lid of the coffin, old woman and all, was dashed off in an instant, the corpse flying up in the air, and then falling heavily on the floor, rolling over and over, while a tall handsome fellow, in his striped flannel shirt and blue trousers, with the sweat pouring down over his face in streams, sat up in the shell.