A similar scene had taken place in the dry moat of Cliff Castle; and at the head of his little party of eight, Ralph Darley was silently on his way to the Steeple Stone, a great rugged block of millstone-grit, which rose suddenly from a bare place just at the edge of the moor.
The night was admirable for the venture, for it was dark, but not too much so, there being just enough light to enable the men to avoid the stones and bushes that lay in their way, which was wide of any regular path or track.
Ralph’s heart throbbed high with excitement, and in imagination he saw the gang of ruffians beaten and wounded, secured by the ropes he had had the foresight to make Nick Garth and Ram Jennings bring, and dragged back at dawn to the Castle to receive the punishment that his father would measure out.
He was a little troubled about that, for he felt that it was possible some objection might be raised by Mark Eden; and he was also a little uneasy about the first encounter of the two little bands of men so hostile to one another. But his followers were amenable to discipline, and one and all so eager for the fray, that he soon forgot all about these matters in the far greater adventure to come, and marched steadily on, keeping a bright look out, till he was nearing the solitary rock.
“See any one, Nick?” he whispered to his head man.
“No, sir. All as still and lonesome as can be.”
“Then we are first,” whispered Ralph. “I am glad. We’ll march close up, and then crouch down round the stone till the others come.”
Nick grunted; and they tramped softly on over the grass and heath, with all looking grim and strange, the utter stillness of the night out there adding to the solemnity of the scene.
But they had not taken half-a-dozen paces toward the block, seen dimly against the starless sky, when there was a sharp chink, and a familiar voice cried:
“Who goes there?”