“Do you hear? Get up!” cried Artingale.
Still the man did not stir, but Magnus noted a slight motion of the hairs of his thick beard, as if his lips had twitched slightly. In other respects he was motionless, his arms folded across the deep chest and the cap over his face.
“He’s not asleep, he’s shamming,” cried Artingale angrily; and bending down he snatched the hat from the fellow’s face and sent it skimming over the cliff, revealing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring at him like those of some wild beast.
“Now then, young gentlemen! what’s the matter?” came now in a deep voice like a growl.
“You scoundrel!” began Magnus, but he had over-rated his strength. His illness had told upon him terribly, and he could neither speak, move, nor act, but pale and haggard stood there holding his hand pressed upon his breast.
“Who are you calling names?” said the fellow fiercely.
“Leave him to me,” cried Artingale. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Oh, two of you, eh?” exclaimed Jack; “two of you to a man as is down. Well, as I said before, and I say again, what’s the matter?”
“Look here, you dog!” cried Artingale, planting his foot upon the man’s broad chest, but without eliciting a movement, “I know everything about you, and where you come from.”
“Oh, do you?” said the fellow with a chuckle. “And so do I know you. You’re a game preserver from Lincolnshire.”