“Yes, yes, yes; don’t make such a fuss about it, Master Rayburn,” cried Mark hastily. “And then we had to join and whip the beggars, and we did whip ’em at last; and my leg hurts horribly, and you stand there talking, instead of coming home to doctor it.”
“Yes,” said the old man, looking at the lad curiously, and then at Ralph. “Come along, boy. You, Darley, you had better come up to the Black Tor, and be attended to there.”
“No, thank you, Master Rayburn; I must make haste back. Come and see to my arm when you have done his.”
Ralph turned upon his heel as he spoke, and hurried away through the bushes; while, feeling puzzled, and yet pleased and hopeful, Master Rayburn gave the cob its head, and walked on and up the steep zigzag beside his young friend, carefully avoiding all allusion to the lads’ duel, and discussing the possibility of an expedition to drive the marauders out of their stronghold.
“I’m not a man of war, Mark,” he said; “but I shall have to carry a pike instead of an eel-spear against these villains. We shall none of us be safe.”
“Oh yes, we’ll talk about that to-morrow,” said Mark peevishly. “This hurts horribly. I say, don’t say anything to my father about my fighting alongside that young Darley. I was obliged to, you see.”
“Of course you were, my lad! We must all make common cause against such an enemy. No, I will not say anything unless you wish me to.”
“Thank ye. Father mightn’t like it, you see.”
“But you will tell him?”
“No, I think not—I don’t know—well, there, not to-night. I’m giddy, and feel sick. I didn’t notice it so much when I was hot and all in the fight, but it’s very painful now. Would you mind putting your arm round me? I feel as if I should fall off.”