“I don’t know. Be on your guard.”
“Not fancy, is it, my boy?” said Sir Morton, rather doubtfully.
There was a sharp rustling sound, and a foot kicked a stone, as its owner was evidently retreating fast.
“Humph! Then some one has been following you.—Hallo, there! stop!”
“Hoi! hillo!” came from a distance in answer.
“Quick!” said Sir Morton. “This way, man. Found—found!”
The cliffs echoed the words, and Sir Morton took the lad’s arm and pressed it firmly—fortunately the left.
“I beg your pardon, Ralph. I thought you were scared by the darkness of the wood. Some one was after you; but it would be folly to try and catch him in this gloomy place. Why, what’s the matter, boy? you are reeling about. Feel faint?”
“Yes,” panted the lad heavily. “I have been fighting—wounded. Help me, please.”
Sir Morton Darley passed his arm under his son’s, and helped him quickly along; a whistle brought Nick Garth and another man to his side; and the former carried the lad right up the slope to the entrance of the castle, where a little rest and refreshment recovered the sufferer sufficiently to enable him to relate why he had brought back no fish, a task he had hardly ended, when Master Rayburn entered to dress his second patient’s arm.