“Here!” “There!” “Get him!” Two rough voices shouted from below, and there was the noise of tramping feet.
“Nay, nay! Good-night to you!” the vagabond called; his voice sounded as if he were running.
“Hey! he’s off!” One of the rough voices roared. “Halt!” A shot snapped through the air, followed quickly by another.
Rosamond stood motionless, stupefied by terror.
“I winged him,” she heard the same voice say. Then she threw off the spell in which fear had gripped her and rushed out into the garden and down the drive, calling wildly. Guns were as little known in Roseborough as tramps. She had no idea what she should find in the road, or who the men were who had shot at her vagabond and perhaps killed him. No thought of danger to herself crossed her mind. She dashed on recklessly, crying:
“Vagabond! My vagabond! Answer me!”
CHAPTER XIX
The first sound she heard was a horse’s trotting as some one rode away down the hill. There was a jumble of interjections, groans, and arguments, amid which she distinguished her vagabond’s voice. He was at least not slain! She sent up a swift prayer of grateful joy, and called him again. He replied with a guarded question.