“Let us draw back,” said Joan, in a whisper “and go straight down to the marsh and up to Hurst that way!”
Tregenna assented, and was in the very act of turning the horse, when there was a shout, a hoarse cry, and a man sprang out from the copse: the next moment the lieutenant’s bridle was seized by Ben the Blast, who was no horseman, and who chose, therefore, to do his part of the work on foot. At the very moment, however, that he sprang out from his ambush, a couple of horsemen appeared, the one behind, the other in front of Tregenna; while a third, galloping up the road, joined his comrades, and, presenting a pistol at the lieutenant, shouted to his comrades to shoot him down.
The newcomer was Jack Price, whose tears and maudlin protests at the farmhouse had excited the derision of his comrades.
“Hold your hands!” shouted Tregenna back. “Do you not see whom I have with me? There is none here, I am very sure, would harm Parson Langney’s daughter?”
“Nay,” cried out one of the horsemen, whom, by the voice, Tregenna knew to be Tom; “we’ll not harm her. But thou shalt not shelter thyself behind a woman’s petticoats!”
But before he could finish his speech Tregenna had deftly disengaged himself from the clasp of Joan’s arms, and springing to the ground struck Ben the Blast such a violent blow with the muzzle of one of his pistols that that burly ruffian released his hold on the horse’s bridle. Then, before any one had time to stop him, or even to realize his intention, Tregenna thrust the reins into Joan’s hands, and bidding her “Hold on! Ride on quickly!” gave the horse a smart cut which sent him galloping forward clear away from the throng.
Then, springing to the side of the road, he put his back against a tree, drew his cutlass, and prepared to make the best defense he could.
Jack Price, with a fearful oath, rode at him, but missed his aim with the knife he held, and narrowly escaped being dismounted, as the horse swerved on nearing the tree. Robin Cursemother, who was one of the mounted ones, took warning by this, and swung himself off his horse.
In truth, none of them were more efficient as horsemen than kegs of their own contraband spirits would have been; and Gardener Tom, who kept his saddle on account of his lameness, contented himself with a passive share in the business, by standing in the road with his pistol cocked, waiting for a chance of aiming at Tregenna without risking the maiming of his own comrades.
Meantime, however, Robin had attacked the lieutenant fiercely in front, while little mean-faced Bill Plunder, creeping through the brushwood, struck at him from behind.