“It is but a few hours before the light comes, nephew,” said my uncle, after he had tried all the bolts and bars. “You shall never regret this night’s work. If we come through safely it will be the making of you. Stand by me till mornin’, and I stand by you while there’s breath in my body. The cart will be ’ere by five. What isn’t ready we can afford to leave be’ind. We’ve only to load up and make for the early train at Congleton.”
“Will they let us pass?”
“In broad daylight they dare not stop us. There will be six of us, if they all come, and three guns. We can fight our way through. Where can they get guns, common, wandering seamen? A pistol or two at the most. If we can keep them out for a few hours we are safe. Enoch must be ’alfway to Purcell’s by now.”
“But what do these sailors want?” I repeated. “You say yourself that you wronged them.”
A look of mulish obstinacy came over his large, white face.
“Don’t ask questions, nephew, and just do what I ask you,” said he. “Enoch won’t come back. ’e’ll just bide there and come with the cart. ’Ark, what is that?”
A distant cry rang from out of the darkness, and then another one, short and sharp like the wail of the curlew.
“It’s Enoch!” said my uncle, gripping my arm. “They’re killin’ poor old Enoch.”
The cry came again, much nearer, and I heard the sound of hurrying steps and a shrill call for help.
“They are after ’im!” cried my uncle, rushing to the front door. He picked up the lantern and flashed it through the little shutter. Up the yellow funnel of light a man was running frantically, his head bowed and a black cloak fluttering behind him. The moor seemed to be alive with dim pursuers.