The young Cavalier struggled free from his fallen horse, and tried to drag a pistol from the holster at his saddle-bow, for his sword had flown a dozen yards away among the bushes; but Fred had him by the neck directly, his hand well inside the steel gorget he wore, and in one breath he shouted, as he held his sword at his breast, “Surrender!” and then, “Scar Markham! You!”
“Yes. Give up, my lads,” cried the prisoner. “We’ve done all we could. Let the crop-ears have a few prisoners for once in a way.”
Chapter Sixteen.
Teasing a Prisoner.
Fred Forrester was too much astonished at the result of his pursuit to make any sharp retort, but sat holding his prisoner by the gorget, staring wildly at his old playmate, who seemed wonderfully changed since their last meeting, and who had looked, in spite of dust and sweat, tall and handsome in his gay frippery, scarf, scarlet feather, and long curling hair.
“Well, rebel,” cried the prisoner; and Fred started from his reverie. “Am I the first you ever had the luck to take that you stare in that way? Don’t choke me.”
Fred’s tanned cheeks grew crimson, and his brow was knit as he turned away his face to look after his men, who in the meantime had taken the whole of the little party, dismounted those who needed it, bound their arms behind; their back, and collected the horses.
“Look ye here, sir,” cried Samson, dragging forward the man in the morion, who came behind limping, “I’ve got him at last. This is my wretch of a brother, who has taken up arms against me.”