“Ah, I wish we had fifty of you,” said the bluff man. “Don’t hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can’t do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king.”
“You cowards!” cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light.
“Come along,” he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out.
“Do you hear?” cried the bluff man again. “Come along!”
“How can I, when he’s sticking on like a rat?” growled the man who held Don. “Did you ever see such a young ruffian?”
The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold.
“Don’t be a young fool,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. “It’s plucky, but it’s no good. Can’t you see we’re seven to one?”
“I don’t care if you’re a hundred,” raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly.
“Bravo, boy! That’s right; but we’re English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that.”
He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem.