At the end of the lower passage, he found the key lying in the little niche, and, taking it up, was about to apply it to the lock, when he thought he heard a step, without being able to distinguish at first whether it was in the passage behind him, or on the hill-side beyond the door. He turned round, and looked, and listened; and then clearly heard the step again, apparently close to him, but on the outside. The next instant, a voice was heard speaking in a grumbling tone, and with a strong Devonshire accent.
"I don't see what is the use of sending us down here," it said. "Why, twenty people could pass us in this wood."
"Never you mind, Jim; do your duty and obey orders," said another voice. "Let other people think what is the use. I am sure you would never find out for yourself, if it made you take ten steps off your horse's back. There, get on a little lower down. I'll mount guard here, where the path turns."
"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Smeaton, to himself; "the search has begun. I may as well wait here a little. Any one coming down the stairs, and along the passage, would soon be heard; and I think these two gentlemen outside would easily be dealt with."
He accordingly put the candle in the niche where the key had lain, brought the hilt of his sword a little round, and quietly placed the key in the lock. A few minutes passed in perfect silence, the men without either standing perfectly still, or sitting on the edge of the fountain; but then Smeaton's quick ear caught the sound of a distant footfall, which evidently came nearer and nearer, but not by the passage in which he was standing.
"Who may this new visitor be, I wonder!" he mentally ejaculated, and, bending down his head, listened more attentively. The step came nearer and nearer, and approached the door close to which he had placed himself. Then, a loud voice cried "Stand!" and Smeaton could hear the sound of what seemed a spring and a brief scuffle.
"Ugh, ugh! don't strangle me!" cried a good, round, jolly voice. "Man, I am apoplectic, by the blessing of God and the assistance of capons and strong waters. If you twist my cravat in that way, you will get nothing but a dead statuary, which is as bad as a dead lion."
The last words confirmed what the tone of voice had intimated to Smeaton before, that his good friend Van Noost was the person who had fallen into the hands of the Philistines; and, believing, from their conversation that morning, that the poor sculptor had more cause than himself to fear the pursuit of justice, he felt really sorry for him.
"Lion, or whatever else you may call yourself," replied the soldier's voice, "you must along with me. Come, come, no struggling, or I'll break your pate, master. By ----, they say, 'as fat as a lord;' and, if this is a lord, it is a fat one of the sort."
"Ugh, ugh!" cried Van Noost. "I tell you, you will strangle me if you drag me in that way."