Chapter Forty Seven.
At the Point of the Sword.
Fred Forrester had been expecting the challenge from the moment they began to move, but so suddenly and unexpectedly did it come at last, that he remained for the moment speechless, gazing at the dimly seen figure framed in the arched way, with the light playing upon the sword extended toward his breast.
Samson was the first to speak.
“Take hold of the candle now,” he whispered, “and I’ll rush him. There isn’t room to strike, sir; and I can put aside his point.”
“No, no,” said Fred, forcing himself to the front, and addressing him who barred the way. “Put up your sword; we are friends.”
“Friends!” came back mockingly. “Then put up your own weapon.”
“Of coarse,” said Fred, quickly sheathing his sword. “I didn’t know who might be here. Scar Markham, we’re come to help you.”
“To help?” said the guardian of the vault, in a voice which sounded strangely hollow in the narrow place. “Is this some fresh treachery?”
“What!” shouted Fred, angrily, as he stepped forward and pressed right up to the point of the sword. Military life and training both were forgotten, and in an instant the lad felt back in the old boyish days sit home, when some sharp contention had taken place between him and his companion.