“True, O Calif! so we should.—Ugh! You ugly brutes. Tie our hands behind our backs, would you?—Here, Mr Irishman, there’s no need for this. We didn’t serve you so.”
“Oh yes,” said Moriarty. “Spies like to get all the news they can, and then to run away with their load.”
“After treacherously trying to murder the sentry on duty, and then treacherously striking down two people in the dark.”
“Hwhat!” cried Moriarty fiercely.
“I mean you, you cowardly hound!—you disgrace to the name of Irishman!”
There was the sound of a smart blow, and Denham staggered back against the men who were binding his wrists.
A cheer rose from some of the fierce men around us, a murmur of disapprobation from others, as Denham recovered himself and stood upright, with his chest expanded and a look of scorn and contempt in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “you are a disgrace to a great name. I am a prisoner, and my hands are tied.”
“Silence, spy!” cried Moriarty fiercely, and a dead silence fell.
“I’ll not be silent,” said Denham. “Val, if we die for it, repeat my words in Dutch. But if I live I’ll kill that man, or he shall kill me.—Moriarty, you’re a treacherous coward and a cur, to strike a helpless, wounded man.”