“Be t' maister shot?”
“No, nowt but a clip wi' a stick.”
As the words passed between them the assailants again rushed forward with curses and execrations upon those who stood between them and their victim.
“Moind, Luke, they ha' got knoives!” Bill exclaimed. “Oi ha' got more nor one slash already.”
Luke and Bill fought vigorously, but they were overmatched. Anger and fear for Ned's safety nerved Luke's arm, the weight of the last twenty years seemed to drop off him, and he felt himself again the sturdy young cropper who could hold his own against any in the village. But he had not yet got back his breath, and was panting heavily. The assailants, six in number, were active and vigorous young men; and Bill, who was streaming with blood from several wounds, could only fight on the defensive. Luke then gave a short cry of relief as the two men who had started with him, but whom he had left behind from the speed which his intense eagerness had given him, ran up but a short minute after he had himself arrived and ranged themselves by him. The assailants hesitated now.
“Ye'd best be off,” Luke said; “there ull be a score more here in a minute.”
With oaths of disappointment and rage the assailants fell back and were about to make off when one of them exclaimed: “Ye must carry Tom off wi' thee. It ull never do to let un lay here.”
The men gathered round a dark figure lying a few yards away. Four of them lifted it by the hands and feet, and then they hurried away across the moor. As they did so Bill Swinton with a sigh fell across Ned's body. In two or three minutes four more men, accompanied by George and Polly, whose anxiety would not let her stay behind, hurried up. Luke and his companions had raised Ned and Bill into a sitting posture.
“Are they killed, feyther?” Polly cried as she ran up breathless to them.
“Noa, lass; oi think as t' maister be only stunned, and Bill ha' fainted from loss o' blood. But oi doan't know how bad he be hurted yet. We had best carry 'em back to t' house; we can't see to do nowt here.”