Part 81 (1/2)

Samson had taken a strip of linen out of his morion, and after twisting it round the slight, freely bleeding cut on his finger, held it up for Fred to tie.

”Thank ye kindly, sir. I meant that for a leg or a wing, but it will do again for them.”

”I am very sorry, Samson,” said Fred, giving the knot a final pull.

”Oh, it don't matter, sir; only don't try any o' them games again. So you thought I was a spy?”

”Yes.”

”And what was you going to do with me?”

”Make you a prisoner, and take you down to camp.”

”Well, you are a one!” said Samson, looking at his young master, and laughing. ”Think of a whipper-snapper like you trying to capture a big chap like me.”

Fred winced angrily.

”Well, not so much of a whipper-snapper as Master Scarlett, sir; but you haven't got much muscle, you know.”

”Muscle enough to try.”

”Yes, sir,” said the ex-gardener, thoughtfully; ”but it isn't the muscle so much as the try. It's the thinking like and scheming. You see a bit of rock stands up, and you can't move it with muscle, but if you put a little bit of rock close to it, and then get a pole or an iron bar, and puts it under the big rock and rests it on the little, and then pushes down the end, why, then, over the big rock goes, and it's out of your way.”

”Yes, Samson,” said Fred, thoughtfully, as he watched the advance; ”and so you didn't care to go to the attack?”

”No, sir, I wouldn't; but it was tempting, though; ay, that it was.”

”Tempting?”

”Well, you see, Master Fred, Nat has got some chyce cabbage seed, and he'd never give me a pinch, try how I would; no, nor yet sell a man a pen'orth. He kept it all to himself, just out of a nasty greedy spirit, so that his cabbages might be bigger and heavier than ours at the Manor.

I'd have had some of that seed if I'd gone, for he couldn't have come and stopped me now.”

”No, poor fellow! I wonder how he is?”

”Getting better, sir. He's as tough as fifty-year-old yew. Nothing couldn't kill him; but look, sir, look! See how they're getting up to the terrace. Ah!”

This exclamation was made as a white puff suddenly seemed to dart from one of the windows of the Hall, and then there was another, and another, the reports seeming to follow, and then to echo from the next hill.

But no one in the attacking force seemed to fall, neither did it check them. On the contrary, they appeared to be spurred into action, and instead of creeping on as it were in a slow steady march, they broke up into little knots, and dashed forward, while a second line kept steadily on.

”Look at them! look at them, Master Fred! Don't it make you feel as if you wished you was in it?” cried Samson, excitedly. ”That's it; fire away; but you won't stop 'em. All Coombeland boys, every man-jack of 'em, and you can't stop them when they mean business.”

”No,” said Fred between his teeth, as he tried to keep down the feelings of elation engendered by the gallantry of the attack, by forcing himself to think of how it would be were he Scarlett Markham, and these men enemies attacking his home. ”Look, look, Samson!” he whispered, with his throat dry, his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth, and the scar of his worst wound beginning to throb.

”Yes, I'm a-looking, sir,” said Samson, in as husky a voice. ”There, they've got a ladder up against the big long window, and they're swarming up it. They'll be in directly, and drive the long-haired gentlemen flying like leaves before a noo birch broom.”

”No,” said Fred, shading his eyes with his hands; ”no. Ah, did you hear the crash? How horrible! Some of them must be killed.”

”Not they, Master Fred. But I don't see how they did it. Fancy turning the ladder right back with seven or eight lads running up it! But it was well done.”