“He shall fight for his Majesty the king. Now, my lads, quick. Some one coming, and the wrong sort.”
Don felt himself lifted off his feet, and half smothered by the hot jacket which seemed to keep him from breathing, he was hurried along two or three of the lanes, growing more faint and dizzy every moment, till in the midst of a curious nightmare-like sensation, lights began suddenly to dance before his eyes; then all was darkness, and he knew no more till he seemed to wake up from a curious sensation of sickness, and to be listening to Jem Wimble, who would keep on saying in a stupid, aggravating manner,—“Mas’ Don, are you there?”
The question must have been repeated many times before Don could get rid of the dizzy feeling of confusion and reply,—“Yes; what do you want?”
“Oh, my poor lad!” groaned Jem. “Here, can you come to me and untie this?”
“Jem!”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean? Why is it so dark? Where are we?”
“Don’t ask everything at once, my lad, and I’ll try to tell you.”
“Has the candle gone out, Jem? Are we in the big cellar?”
“Yes, my lad,” groaned Jem, “we’re in a big cellar.”