“What have I ever done to make you think me such a cowardly brute, Nick Garth?” said Mark boldly; as the others uttered a menacing growl. “Well,” he continued, “is that all you have to say? What about your young master?”
The man’s face was convulsed by a spasm, and he turned away, pointing the while at the smoking ruins.
“What does he mean by that?” said Mark to another of the men.
“They killed him,” said the man hoarsely. “Burned, poor lad! In yonder.”
“No, no,” cried Mark excitedly. “He escaped, and came up to us—to ask for help.”
“The young master?” cried Nick, turning back to look at the speaker fiercely; “why, I see him cut down with my own eyes.”
“I tell you, he crawled out of the fire. He’s badly wounded and burned, but he’s lying in my room, with Master Rayburn by his side.”
“Say that again—say that again, youngster!” cried Nick Garth, as he caught Mark fiercely by the hand, and thrust his blood-smeared and blackened face close to him.
“There is no need,” said Mark. “He is very bad, but he was able to ask us for help.”
A wild hurrah! burst from the men, even the worst wounded waving their hands, as they crowded round the startled pony, which began to rear, and tried to unseat his rider.