“It’s the only way, lad. The dogs are yonder, and we couldn’t get over the palisade. Now!”
They crept on in silence, seeing from time to time glints of the lantern, and in the midst of the still darkness matters seemed to be going so easily for them that Abel’s heart grew more regular in its pulsation, and he was just asking himself why he had not had invention enough to contrive this evasion, when a clear and familiar voice cried, “Shtand!” and there was the click of a musket-lock.
What followed was almost momentary.
Bart struck aside the bayonet levelled at his breast, and leaped upon the sentry before him, driving him backward and clapping his hand upon his mouth as he knelt upon his chest; while, ably seconding him, his companion wrested the musket from the man’s hand, twisted the bayonet from the end of the barrel, and, holding it daggerwise, pressed it against the man’s throat.
“Hold aside, Bart,” whispered Abel, savagely.
“No, no,” growled Bart. “No blood, lad.”
“’Tis for our lives and liberty!” whispered Abel, fiercely.
“Ay, but—” growled Bart. “Lie still, will you!” he muttered, as fiercely as his companion, for the sentry had given a violent heave and wrested his mouth free.
“Sure, an’ ye won’t kill a poor boy that how, gintlemen,” he whispered, piteously.
“Another word, and it’s your last!” hissed Abel.