He was seized, and retreat had begun, when again rang out:—
“Halt—stand!”
The smugglers were between two fires.
The midshipman was conscious of a familiar voice crying,—
“No shots, lads. Cutlashes!”
There was a rush; the sound of blows, men swayed and struggled about wildly, and the lad, bound, blindfolded, and helpless, was thrust here and there. Then he received a sharp blow from a cudgel, which sent him staggering forward, and directly after a dull cut from a steel weapon, which, fortunately for him, fell upon and across the rope which bound his arms to his sides. There were oaths, fierce cries, and the struggling grew hotter, till all at once there was a rush, Archy went down like a skittle, men seemed to perform a triumphal war-dance upon his body, and then they passed on with the fight, evidently consisting of a retreat and pursuit, till the sounds nearly died away.
A minute later, as Archy lay there perfectly helpless, the noises increased again. Men were evidently laughing and talking loudly, and the sounds seemed to come round a corner, to become plainer all at once.
“Pity we didn’t go on after them? Nonsense, my lad! They know every hole and corner about here, and there’s no knowing where they’d have led us,” said a familiar voice.
“Well, it is precious dark,” said another.
“Too dark to see what we are about. But I take you all to witness, my lads, they ’tacked us first.”