“Come on—follow me!” cried Mark, waving his hand as if encouraging others on, and the action turned every look down the glen, in the direction from whence he came, and whence now came a wild, shrill yell, the most savage and appalling.
“Fire!—down with him!—fire!” shouted the soldiers to one another, as Mark, leaning fiat on his horse's main, rode on; and the balls whistled quick, above and around, but not one struck him. “After him, Jack—after him!” cried one of the sentinels, who, perceiving that Mark was not followed, turned his horse to the pursuit; but another yell, wilder than the first, arrested him, and he heard a voice screaming, “This way, boys, this way—we have them here!” and Terry, waving his cap, bounded forward, and called out unceasingly for others to come on. In an instant the whole attention was turned to the front, while with the stroke of a sabre poor Terry was stretched upon the ground, bleeding and senseless.
“It is only that cursed fool we used to see at Macroom, about the barrack gates,” said one of the dragoons, as he held a piece of lighted wood beside his face, “and the other fellow cannot have had much more sense, or he would never have tried to ride through a squadron of horse. But there!—he's down now! Did you hear that crash?—that was a horse that fell!”
So it was; Mark had but passed the first party to fall on a much more formidable body further on, and his horse, twice wounded, was at last struck in the shoulder, and fell headlong to the ground pinioning the rider beneath him. With a dexterity that seemed magical, Mark disengaged himself from the wounded animal, and drawing his pistols, prepared to sell his life dearly.
“You are a prisoner, sir,” called out the sergeant, as with fearless step he marched towards him.
“Another pace nearer, and I'll send a bullet through you,” said Mark; “you may have my corpse for your booty, but you'll never lay hands on me living.”
“Don't fire, don't fire, men,” cried a voice, as the officer rode up at the speed of his horse, and then throwing himself from the saddle, commanded the men to fall back. With looks of astonishment and even of anger, the dragoons retired, while the captain sheathing his sword, approached Mark.
“Thank heaven, Mr. O'Donoghue, you have not fired at my men.”