A rustling noise on my left warned me that some one else was coming; but I let my hands fall to my side, for I had made a grievous mistake, and must strike no more.
In place now of my hanging on to Courtenay, he was holding me, and drawing in his breath he raised himself a little, raised one hand and was about to strike me, but before he could, Philip seemed to seize me by the collar, and his brother too, but in an instant I felt that it was a stronger grip, and a hoarse gruff voice that I knew well enough was that of Sir Francis shouted out, “Caught you, have I, you young scoundrels.”
As he spoke he made us rise, and forced us before him—neither of us speaking—through the bushes and on to the path, a little point of light appearing above me, and puffs of pungent smoke from a cigar striking my face.
“I’ve got t’other one,” said a rough voice that I also recognised, and I cried out involuntarily:
“Ike—Ike!”
“That’s me, lad. I’ve got him fast.”
“You let me go. You hurt me,” cried Philip out of the darkness.
“Hurt yer? I should think I do hurt you. Traps always does hurt, my fine fellow. Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Bring him here,” cried Sir Francis; and as Ike half carried, half dragged Philip out from among the trees on to the broad green walk, Sir Francis cried fiercely:
“Now, then! What’s the meaning of all this!”