“Come on, my lads!” came out of the darkness ahead. “I know where to find him, snivelling yonder among the old images. Come on!”
There was a shout, and it seemed as if the leader of a body of men, beneath whose feet the rotten branches that bestrewed the path crackled, had suddenly halted for his companions to close up before saying a few final words of encouragement.
“Now then,” the voice said in thick, husky tones, “stand by me, my lads. He’s gone on there, and there’s no getting back. One good, bold blow and we’ll scotch him like a snake. Then fair share and share alike of all there is hidden away, and start straight. He’s no good now, and the others’ll join in when he’s gone. Ready?”
“Ay, ay!” came in hoarse, drunken tones; and as Humphrey felt himself pressed back into the pathway by which he had come, there was a staggering of feet, and a dull trampling, as about a dozen men passed on, leaving behind them the thick reek of hot, spirit-laden breath.
“Now!” as the steps passed on. “Now,” was whispered in Humphrey’s ear; “this way.”
“Ah!” arose in a fierce growl, as some one of the party who had not gone on with the rest made a dash at and seized the buccaneer captain. “Prisoner! Who is it? Here, hi mates, I’ve—”
He said no more. Without pause or thought why he did this—why he sought to save his companion—Humphrey Armstrong made a spring in the direction of the voice, his hands came in contact with a coarse bull throat, and its owner was driven backwards, to fall with his head striking a projecting piece of stone, dragging the buccaneer in the fall.
The man was stunned, and lay perfectly inert as Humphrey and his companion struggled to their feet, panting with exertion, and listening for the return of the party who had gone on.
But they had not heard the noise of the struggle, the maze-like turnings of the path had shut it out, and their voices came now muffled and soft, as if from a distance.
Then Humphrey felt his hand gripped firmly.