Captain Mortimer paused an instant, hesitatingly.
“I suppose you’re entitled to some consideration in this matter,” he said sulkily. “There may be some truth in what you say. Perhaps I can best aid the cause I serve by exercising diplomacy for the moment and biding my time.”
“Now you’re talking concentrated sense,” replied the Professor. “That’s the proper way to look at it.”
As he spoke, the air-ship on either side had drawn close in upon them. Each of these air-ships threw out a long, powerful prong, resembling a giant boat-hook, and held “The Royal Dean” securely. Words of command rang out and an instant later the two air-ships began descending at moderate speed to the valley below, drawing down the captive craft between them. Mortimer picked up his sword and buckled it about his waist. The Professor was silent. Both stood in their respective positions, expectant and alert but offering no further resistance.
They reached the bottom of the valley and gently grounded upon tufted grass. As they did so, the captives glanced about and saw that they were surrounded by a number of rough-looking men, who had evidently been awaiting the landing. They also saw with some astonishment that in the forward rank stood a young woman, jauntily attired in a natty hunting costume. A short skirt of some dark material fell over a pair of high-laced russet shoes and a pert red feather peeped forth from the saucy little hat which covered her short black curls. As she stood watching the captives, her cheeks flushed with excitement and her black eyes sparkling, she presented a remarkably pretty picture of a brunette of the slender, sinuous type.
There were hurried exclamations, greetings and questions—addressed by the men on the ground to the men in the arriving air-ships. The answers seemed to cause considerable perturbation and excitement. At a word of command two men stepped forward and seized Captain Mortimer roughly by the shoulders.
In an instant he had shaken them off, and with two smashing blows sent them sprawling to the ground.
“I surrender,” he said; “not to you, you scum; to the lady!”
And he raised his hand in military salute.
One of the men struck lay on the ground, apparently stunned, but the other sprang to his feet with an oath. His hand flew to the back of his belt and out flashed a long, ugly-looking knife. Mortimer sprang lightly over the quarter, set his back against the side of the air-ship and drew his sword. A murmur—half-angry, half-excited—went up from the surrounding groups of men. At the prospect of a fight their curiosity and interest were whetted. The man with the knife crouched as if seeking an opportunity to spring in and attack, while Mortimer stood coolly on the defensive, a half smile upon his face, as he watched the man’s awkward points.