“Hallo, here!” cried a rough voice, as four men seemed to appear suddenly out of the cold grey mist. “Seen anything of—Oh, here we are, Jem; one of the wounded birds.”
The speaker, who was in the uniform of a warder, strode up, and, bending down, roughly seized Cyril by the shoulder.
“Didn’t get off this time, ’Underd and seven,” he said. “Nice dance you’ve—”
“Hands off, fellow!” cried Luke, indignantly. “Do you not see that he is badly hurt?”
“Who are you?” cried the warder, fiercely. “Don’t you resist the law. Now then, ’Underd and seven, up with you. No shamming, you know.”
He caught the dying man’s arm, as Cyril gazed defiantly in his face, and made a snatch, as if to drag him up, when, exasperated beyond bearing at the fellow’s brutality, and on seeing Sage’s weak effort to shield her husband, Luke started up, and struck the ruffian so fierce a blow, full on the cheek, that he staggered back a few steps, and nearly fell.
He was up again directly, as his three companions levelled their pieces, and the sharp click, click of the locks were heard.
“Down with him, lads!” cried the warder. “It’s a planned thing. They were waiting with that fly.”
The warders came on, but Luke did not shrink.
“You know,” he said, firmly, “that your man exceeded his duty. Here is the Home Secretary’s order for us to see this prisoner. I shall report to-day’s proceedings, you may depend.”