"You won't. Very well, sir, I'll pay you out for this! What's your name?"
"Kovatsh Miksha, a nobleman of St. Vilmosh. I will not go, even to please your God!"
"Oh, I beg your pardon! I did not know you! But who's this fellow?"
"That's my cousin, Andrash. He's a nobleman, and he won't go!"
"Why, where the deuce are the peasants?"
"Shot, or run away!"
"The rascals!" cried the judge; "the cowards! Never mind, I'll make them pay for it!"
"I beg your worship's pardon," interposed the inspector; "but my opinion is that we had better go home. We have done our duty, and there are only fifteen men here. The rest are either dead or run away. We have no chance of success. When Viola finds out how few there are of us, and that we cannot watch the hut on all sides, he will make his way out into the forest."
The justice was on the point of yielding, when Mr. Catspaw approached the group. He suggested another scheme. "Put fire to the hut," said he. "They will find it too hot to hold them; they will come out; and when they do, you shoot them down." His advice was eagerly adopted. The inspector was frantic with joy, and a Pandur was at once sent off to carry the scheme into effect. The men of St. Vilmosh and the Pandurs took their places in the thicket, ready to fire at the robbers; and Mr. Skinner was so violent in expressing the pleasure he felt, that he swore twice as much as before.
The situation of the robbers was far worse than their assailants suspected. The shot, which the inspector had fired through the cutting, had pierced the broad chest of Ratz Andor. He lay on his back, groaning, and moving his limbs in a pool of blood. The butcher walked to and fro with alternate oaths and prayers, and cursing the day of his birth.