“Stand back, sir!” said Scarlett, sternly, “or—”
“No, you wouldn’t,” cried Fred. “Put down your sword. You wouldn’t be such a coward. How dare you accuse me of treachery?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the sword-point was dropped, and Fred cried eagerly—
“Now, then, come out into the daylight, and— Oh, what a fool I am! Scar Markham, we’ve come to help you. I say, where’s Sir Godfrey? Is he safe?”
Scarlett tried to answer, but his feelings were too much for him. Hunger, misery, confinement in that dark, depressing place, and the mental agony he had been called upon to bear, rendered him speechless, and he half turned away.
Fred sprang at once to his side, and his quick movement excited Scarlett’s suspicion for the moment; but he thrust his sword back into its sheath, and stood there motionless.
“Look here,” said Fred, excitedly, “of course, we’re enemies, Scar; but we want to help you all the same.”
“I suppose we must surrender now,” said Scarlett, sadly. “I can do no more. Have you your men outside?”
“No; I haven’t got my men outside,” cried Fred, in a boyish, petulant way. “Can’t you believe me? What am I to say?”
“Nothing, Fred Forrester,” replied Scarlett, mournfully. “I believe you, though we can’t shake hands now.”