Walter Butler struggled with the desperate energy of a man fighting for his life; striking aimlessly with his hunting-knife, but he was speedily overpowered and thrown upon the floor.
Shoemaker, as soon as he could collect his wits, had sought refuge in the pantry, but Sim White speedily discovered his hiding-place, and dragged him back into the kitchen, where he fell upon his knees, writhing and supplicating in abject fear.
“I’m not to blame—I’m an innocent man!” he cried. “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, Sim White; it’s agin nature that you should kill a man you’ve sat at table with.”
“Shut up!” said Sim, giving him a vigorous shake; “nobody wants yer cussed old life, you ain’t worth killin’!”
Butler shouted again to his men with loud curses; once more they essayed to force a passage into the room, but the foremost fell under the unerring aim of the Whigs, and they retreated again. Before the Whigs discovered it, they had found means of egress through the only window the loft contained, and escaped, leaving their leader behind.
“Cowards!” cried Butler, writhing himself free from the grasp of his captors and seeking to draw his pistols, “I’ll sell my life dearly, any way!”
Again he was overpowered, flung upon the settle, and tied securely hand and foot, so that he could only vent his rage in impotent blasphemies.
Sim stood guard over the farmer, who besought him in vain to be released.
“Only let me go, Sim; I’ll tell you the whole. I will, sartin as you live.”
“As if I didn’t know the hull—didn’t I hear every word you said? Jim Davis, indeed, you pesky varmint. Shut up, not a word out of yer Tory head!”