“Gone, by God!” exclaimed Quentin, in helpless amazement. No one had given thought to his illness in the excitement of the moment. He had been called forth with the rest, and when he coughed not even he took note of the fact. This was no time to think of colds and fevers and such a trifling thing as death. He shivered, but it was not with the chill of a sick man; it was the shiver of fear.
“Good Lord, he can't be the one! Turk would die for me!” he cried, almost piteously.
“He is gone, and so is she,” grated Lord Bob. “What are we to infer? He has sold us out, Quentin; that's the truth of it.”
“I'm damned!” almost wept Dickey Savage. “They'll have a pack of officers here before morning. I don't give a hoot for myself, but Lady Saxondale and—”
“Great heaven! what have I brought you to in my folly?” groaned Quentin, covering his face with his hands.
“Open the gate!” called a hoarse voice outside the wall, and every heart stopped beating, every face went white. A heavy boot crashed against the gate.
“The officers!” whispered Lady Jane, in terror. Dickey Savage's arm went round her.
“Let me in! Git a move on!'
“It's Turk!” roared Quentin, springing toward the gate. An instant later Turk was sprawling inside the circle of light shed by the lantern, and a half-dozen voices were hurling questions at him.
The little man was in a sorry plight. He was dirt-covered and bloody, and he was so full of blasphemy that he choked in suppressing it.