“Ho, ho,” laughed Captain Twinely, “he’s a game cub. Get through the hedge, men, and take a hold of him. We’ll hunt the other fellow first.”
“The other seems to be wounded, sir,” said one of the men. “He has his leg bandaged.”
“Then slit his throat,” said the captain, “he can’t run, and I’ve no use for wounded men.”
Neal, his arms tightly gripped by two troopers, made a last appeal.
“It’s a girl,” he said, “would you murder a girl?”
Captain Twinely rolled in his saddle with mirth.
“A vixen,” he cried. “Damn your soul, Neal Ward, but you’re a sly one. To think of a true blue Presbyterian like you, a minister’s son, God rot you, lying and cuddling a girl in a field. A vixen, by God. Strip her, sergeant, till we see if he’s telling the truth.”
Neal, with the strength of a furious man, tore himself from the grasp of his guards. He plunged through the hedge and leaped at Captain Twinely. He gripped the horse’s mane with his left hand, and made a wild snatch at the throat of the man above him in the saddle. A blow on the face from the hilt of Twinely’s sword threw him to the ground. He fell half stunned. He heard Peg shriek wildly, and then lost consciousness of what was happening.
He was roused again by a prod of a sword, and bidden to stand up. His hands were tied and the end of the rope made fast to the stirrup iron of one of the trooper’s horses.
“We’re going to take you back into Antrim,” said Captain Twinely. “I don’t deny that I’d rather deal with you here myself, but you’re a fifty-pounder, my lad, and my men won’t hear of losing their share of the reward. It’ll come to the same thing in the end, any way. Clavering isn’t the man to be squeamish about hanging a rebel. Mount men and march.”