The same thought is in his own mind; but not for worlds would he put it into words. The men fled in a panic, thinking he was not alone; but let them discover that they have only one man to face, and they will soon return and make short work of him.
He knows it well; but what can he do? He cannot leave Honor, and, with his wounded arm, it would be impossible for him to carry her so far as the house. And as he holds her there, her cheeks against his shoulder, her little cold hands in his, he thinks that death itself with her might not be so very terrible after all.
"They will not come back," he tells her—"at least not yet. They will be afraid."
But even as he speaks a stealthy footfall breaks the quiet, and a man's voice says low and guardedly, yet distinct enough for them to hear:
"Have they had time to get to the house, Neil?"
"Troth an' they have, sor—twice over! I'd take my oath they didn't let the grass grow under their feet, once they got free!"—and the man laughs grimly, a low mocking laugh that echoes through the lonely place.
Honor clings more close to Brian, and shivers like one stricken with ague. So far they have not been seen; and the men—Power Magill and his servant—must have passed close to them. But any moment a stir, a heavy breath may betray them.
"If I thought there was a chance of overtaking them, I would follow them even now," Power Magill says fiercely. "To think a fellow like that should have baffled us at the last moment! If it were not for the men's cowardly fear that the police were with him, he couldn't have done it."
"Faith, and that's true for yer honor!"
Very slowly they come back again, talking earnestly. It is evident from what they way that Power Magill has offended his friends by to-night's rashness and, though his companion speaks respectfully there is a veiled threat in his words that Power cannot but feel.