“And I—I—” cried Magnus, bending down and approaching his pale, passion-distorted face to that of the great robust scoundrel at his feet.
“Yes, I see there’s two,” growled the fellow. “And what’ll you do?”
“I’ll shoot you like a dog!” There was something horrible in the intensity of hatred and passion contained in the low, hissing voice in which these few words were uttered; and as he lay there and heard them the great ruffian’s brown face became of a dirty grey. But the look of dread was gone on the instant, and his chest heaved as he indulged in a mocking burst of laughter.
“All right,” he said; “fire away, and if you do kill me, I’ll come when I’m a ghost and see you hung. There, be off both of you. This is free land. This isn’t Lawford, and I haven’t been taking any of your lordship’s rabbuds this time.”
“What are you doing here?” said Artingale.
“Doing here!” said Jock, musingly; “why don’t you know I’m a Lawford man?”
“Yes; I know that,” cried Artingale.
“Well, my parson’s down here; I miss him when he comes away.”
“Get up, you scoundrel!” cried Artingale, throwing off the brown velvet coat he was wearing, and taking off his watch and chain.
“Not I,” growled the fellow. “There’s lots o’ room for you to pass, man, and ’taint your path. That’s the gainest road back.”