"We'se do," said Wilkins, "we'se soon sattle their business, I reckon," looking grimly at the edge of his knife as he sharpened it upon a stone; adding, "And how and about them guns, captain? Who's to work 'em?"
"I shall take one myself," answered Arthur; "and if I thought I could trust to your discretion, Wilkins, I would put the other into your hands."
"You may trust me for bringing down my bird," said the man; "that's what I were always up to, or I hadn't been here."
"What I mean you to understand by discretion, Wilkins," said Arthur, "is, that you are not to fire till I order you; and then to wing, not to bring down your bird."
"Why, what's the good of that?" remonstrated Wilkins; "it's like giving a rogue a ticket of leave, just to turn a thief into a murderer; that's what ye'll get for being soft. I ken my chaps: ye'd better make an end on 'em."
"It would be unjust and inhuman," said Mr. Mayburn. "These mistaken men may not intend to hurt any of us."
"Except to burn me alive, sir," said Gerald.
"That, I apprehend, my boy," answered Mr. Mayburn, "was but an exaggerated form of speech. But, hark! what noise do I hear?"
Sounds were heard like the rolling of stones. Arthur commanded silence, as every thing depended on their remaining watchful and still. Then voices were distinguished, and, through the green pendent branches, men were seen in the tranquil valley,—men in the felon's marked dress of grey and yellow, ferocious in aspect, coarse and blasphemous in language. Mr. Mayburn shuddered as he heard, for the first time, the oaths and defiant words of hardened infidels; and the good man kneeled down to pray that God would visit with a ray of grace these lost sinners.
"Ay! ay!" cried one, "here are the tracks of the gentry coves: and look ye, Jem, here's a woman's bit of a shoemark. What will they be acting here, I'd like to know. If we could fall on that saucy lad now, I'd just wring his neck about for him."