"I came—fast as I could run," panted Miles.
"You saw no one?" questioned Lister, as he took Master Hopkins's rapier and measured it with the one Dotey held.
"No, no one."
"Francis Billington has been spying about here, though," Dotey spoke evenly. "'Twas while you were at the Captain's house. I sent him packing. But he may bring—"
"Ere any come, we'll be done with the work," Ned Lister interrupted. "Here, Miles, do you run up to the hilltop and lie you down in the grass. If you see any man coming upon us, whistle us a warning."
The grass, in the glare of the sun where the trees had been felled, was a dazzling green, and the slope was very steep. From the summit of the hill where he lay down half-hidden, as they bade, Miles could see the blue harbor and all the sunny street of the town, so deserted that he ventured a glance back over his shoulder. His eyes were fastened there, for he saw the two young men close in combat; he heard the click of steel, saw the quick thrust and recovery, the bending and swaying of the struggling bodies. Then a cry rose up in his throat and choked there, for he saw the dagger fly out of Dotey's hand, and saw him slip upon the pine needles.
A clatter of feet on hollow boards made him look suddenly toward the gun platform, and he had an instant's sight of Captain Standish, who, clapping his hand to the railing of the platform, cleared it at a leap and ran headlong down into the pine thicket. Setting his fingers to his lips, Miles gave a shrill whistle, and right upon it heard the Captain cry, in a terrible voice, "What work is this?" Casting one frightened glance down the hill, Miles saw Ned lay on his side among the pine needles, and Dotey stood over him with one hand dripping blood.
The sky seemed to waver and the whole green world to stagger with the horror of what had happened. Miles crawled away through the long grass down the hillside, through the undergrowth, and never paused till he hid himself, terrified and sick, in the tangle by the pool in the hollow.