The Cavalier rose in his stirrups, and was in the act of striking with all his might, when a fresh sword parted the air like a flash, swung as it was by a muscular arm, and the middle of the blade caught the Cavalier trooper right upon the plated cheek-strap of the morion he wore, dividing it so that the steel cap flew off, and the man dropped back over the cantle of his saddle, his frightened horse making a bound forward and carrying his master a dozen yards before he fell heavily on the heath.
“Who says I can’t use a sword as well as a scythe?” cried a familiar voice.
“Oh, Samson, you’ve saved my life,” cried Fred.
“Serve you right, too, my lad—I mean, serve him right, too. Trying to chop down a boy like you.”
“I am sorry. Look, look, look!” cried Fred, excitedly.
“Eh? Look? What at?”
“Over yonder, where all those Cavaliers are crowding together to make another charge.”
“Yes, I see ’em. What a state their horses are in!”
“But don’t you see Scarlett Markham? And who’s that with them? I see now. Your brother.”
“What, Nat? Where, where? Let me get at him. There’s going to be a prisoner took now, Master Fred, and he’ll have to look sharp to get away.”