“No, Waters, I must go first. I can’t send my men to risks I daren’t attempt myself. Now then, are you ready, Tully?”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Let me go first, sir,” pleaded the gunner.
“Silence, sir,” cried Hilary. “Now, Tully—off.”
Cutlass in hand and closely followed by the elephantine seaman, Hilary ran from his place of concealment across the open space to the bridge, and then without a moment’s hesitation he bounded across it, and on to the rough, ill-tended patch of grass.
To his intense surprise and delight he got over in safety, and then pausing he held up his sword, and with a cheer Billy Waters raced across with the rest of the men.
“Now, quick, Waters, take half the lads and secure the back—no, take four. Two of you keep the bridge. We must capture them all to a man.”
Not a shot was fired. There was no answering cheer. All was as silent as if there had never been a soul there for years, and after carefully scanning the window Hilary went up to the front door and battered it loudly with his sword-hilt.
This knocking he had to repeat twice over before he heard steps, and then a couple of rusty bolts were pushed back, the door was dragged open, and a very venerable old lady stood peering wonderingly in their faces as she screened her eyes with her hand.
“Ye’d better not come in,” she said in a loud, harsh voice. “The place is harnted, and it isn’t safe.”