“They will go on, and so miss us,” he said, reining in his horse. “If we had only our guns now!”
Nearer and nearer came the tramp of the horses—rushing past the dell in hot pursuit, and growing fainter in the distance.
“They have gone by,” said Butler. “Oh, for a good rifle—I’d have one shot!”
“We must take another path,” said Brant; “keep a tight rein, gentlemen.”
While he was glancing around in the starlit gloom for some trace to guide his course, there came up a sudden cry from the depths of the forest; the trees were illuminated by torches, and in an instant they were surrounded by their pursuers.
“This way,” shouted Brant; “they are upon us!”
He urged his horse through the woods, closely followed by his companions. Butler was last; his horse slipped in ascending the bank, rolled over, carrying his rider with him. The rest fled, ignorant of his misfortune, and before he could free himself from his saddle the pursuers had surrounded him.
“Is it the baronet?” asked one.
They flashed a torch in his face, and at the sight of those features a simultaneous cry went up:
“The Tory Butler! Tie him fast!”