"Come nearer," sneered Fergus.
And Stingaree strode forward with an oath.
"I was going to give you six of them. But you're a braver man than I thought. And that's the lot."
The bound youth's livid face turned redder than the red dawn.
"Shoot me—shoot!" he shouted, like a lunatic.
"No, I shall not. I never meant to—I did mean you to sit out six—but you're the most gallant little idiot I've ever struck. Besides, you come from the old country, like myself!"
And a sigh floated into the keen morning air as he looked his last upon the lad through the celebrated monocle.
"Then I'll shoot myself when I'm free," sobbed Fergus through his teeth.
"Oh, no, you won't," were Stingaree's last words. "You'll find it's not a bit worth while."
And when the mounted police and others from Glenranald discovered the trussed youngster, not an hour later, they took the same tone. And one and all stopped and stooped to peer at the two bullet-holes in the post, and at something underneath them, before cutting poor Fergus down.