“How came your lianas at liberty, sir?” cried Fred, sternly, as he turned now on Scarlett.
The latter looked in his direction for a moment, raised his eyebrows, glanced away, then back, in the most supercilious manner, and went on fanning himself.
“I asked you, sir, how your hands came to be at liberty?”
“And, pray, how dare you ask me, insolent dog?” flashed out Scarlett.
The altercation brought three more of the guard up to where they stood, and just in time to see Fred’s passion master him.
“Dog, yourself, you miserable popinjay!” cried Fred. “Here, Samson! Another of you—a fresh rope and stake. You must be taught, sir, the virtue of humility in a prisoner.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprang at the young officer, and seized him by the wrists, but only to hold him for a moment before one hand was wrenched away, and a back-handed blow sent Fred staggering back.
He recovered himself directly, and was dashing at his assailant to take prompt revenge for this second blow; but Samson already had Scarlett by the shoulders, holding on tightly while the staff was thrust under his armpits, and he was rapidly bound as firmly as two strong men could fasten the bonds.
Fred woke to the fact that his followers were watching him curiously, as if to see what steps he would take now, after receiving this second blow; but, to their disgust, he was white as ashes, and visibly trembling.
“Be careful,” he said. “Don’t spoil his plumage. We don’t have so fine a bird as this every day. Mind that feathered hat, Samson, my lad. He will want it again directly. Here, follow me.”