That dead mask of wood stared at Kit blankly. Had it no eyes? no soul? no understanding? was it not English, heart of oak, its life sucked these centuries from the breast of the same mother? could it not feel his agony?
"Piper! Piper! the door's shut!"
"Ay, sir, but it wun't be drackly-minute," came a straining voice from within; and the boy could hear the rending of torn boards, and the splintering of terrific hatchet-work.
The Grenadier with set teeth and blue-black muzzle was launching forward with huge strides.
Kit could hear the rattle of his cartridge-pouch flopping as he ran.
Would the door open? if so, which would reach it first?
"Faster, Blob, faster!"
"Oi'd run faaster, if ma legs would," panted Blob, lumbering behind.
He was doing his best; but he was no match for the fawn-footed gentleman, who led him. Lumps of ghostly clay, inherited from a long line of furrow-following ancestors, clung to his heels, impeding him.
Kit gripped his dirk and ran.