“I need all. I must win to-night and at once. If I fail, the prestige is gone and we are all dead men to-morrow. Besides, I shall be between this house and the rebels. How many of them will get past me? Very few. And you shoot well, Pryce.”
“Oh, I’m not going to shoot any worse than I can help. But I can’t be at fifty different points at once.”
“Well, yes,” the King admitted, “there is a risk. And, whatever happens, I cannot lose Lechworthy.”
“I shouldn’t,” said Pryce. “Valuable man, Lechworthy.”
“Look here, Pryce. I cannot stay another moment. I leave you six men with rifles. You must do the best you can.”
Pryce shrugged his shoulders. Six were not enough, he thought, not nearly enough. But he could see that the King was right. Unless the rebels were overawed and crushed at once, all would be lost.
“Very well,” he said. “Pick out six that can shoot better than they can run.”
“You shall have six good men. You’ll see Lechworthy and put as good a face on it as you can. Ah, they’re bringing my horse. Good-bye, Pryce.”
“Good-bye and luck to you,” said Pryce, and turned back to the house. As he dressed, he could hear voices in the big room at the front of the house, and was not surprised; the noise had been enough to waken anybody. The sound of firing had ceased now, but that vague tumultuous roar of voices went on continuously, mingling with the sound of the surf.
He was rolling a cigarette as he entered the big room. It had struck him that white drill might be inconveniently conspicuous and he wore a suit of dark flannel. He carried no weapon, and his movements were rather slower and more leisurely than usual.