"I am satisfied there is not a word of truth in what you say," rejoined Mr. Palmer. "I desire you to order your people away at once."
"That I cannot do. It would be to require their consent to die of cold."
"Let them die! What are they to me—or to anybody! Order them off, or it will be the worse for them—and for you too!"
"Excuse me; I cannot."
"I give you one more warning. Go yourself, and they will follow."
"I will not."
"Go, or I will compel you."
As he spoke, he half raised his gun.
"You dare not!" said the chief, drawing himself up indignantly.
Together Mr. Palmer and Mr. Sercombe raised their guns to their shoulders, and one of them fired. To give Mr. Palmer the benefit of a doubt, he was not quite at home with his gun, and would use a hair-trigger. The same instant each found himself, breath and consciousness equally scant, floundering, gun and all, in the black bog water on whose edge he had stood. There now stood Rob of the Angels, gazing after them into the depth, with the look of an avenging seraph, his father beside him, grim as a gratified Fate.