Ralph took and raised a torch, and saw that half his own party, including Nick Garth and Ram Jennings, were suffering from cuts and stabs in their arms.
“Oh, they’re nowt,” growled Nick. “They’ve got it worse inside. Now then, let’s go at ’em again, or we shall never do it.”
Another yell of defiance came from the passage, followed by mocking invitations to them to come on again.
“Yah! You aren’t men,” roared Ram Jennings. “Rats, that’s what you are—rats. Only good to go and fight wi’ women.”
“It’s of no good,” said Mark bitterly. “I feel done. I haven’t had a single cut or thrust at one of the brutes; neither have you. We can’t do it.”
“I don’t like to say so,” said Ralph, “but my father was a soldier, and he said a good officer never wasted his men.”
“Well, we’re wasting ours,” said Mark bitterly, “We must give up, and come again.”
“Stop,” whispered Ralph. “I know. Give orders to your men quietly, and I’ll do so to mine. Then we’ll throw the torches in at them with all our might, and give a shout, and retreat as if we were beaten.”
“And stop on each side of the mouth to catch them as they pursue us,” said Mark excitedly, catching at the idea. “That’s it.”
The next moment they were hurrying from man to man, who heard them sulkily, growling and panting in their rage. But they obeyed their leaders’ orders, getting their remaining links well ablaze, the holders forming in front, and the rest quietly and quickly filing out by the other end of the chamber.