“Too far to hear us speak; but hide your lights. Now tell me, are you one of those who attacked these wretches?”
“Yes; and we have reached you at last.”
“Ah!” sighed the prisoner. “It was time—it was time. I don’t know your voice; I could not see your face; but if you know, tell me, for mercy’s sake—my poor boy—was he killed?”
“No. Badly wounded, but alive, and he will live.”
Mark heard the prostrate man muttering, and felt the hand he grasped trembling violently.
“It puts life into me,” he whispered, “when I was nearly spent. Tell me—pray tell me—where is my boy! Not a prisoner?”
“No: safe with us, at the Black Tor.”
“Safe—at the Black Tor!” faltered Sir Morton. “Then you are an Eden?”
“Of course: and my father is close by here with a dozen stout men to punish these villains and save you, and—you do not say anything about your child.”
There was no reply, and Mark pressed the hand he held, to find that there was no response, and that it was turning wet and cold, for the unfortunate prisoner had been unable to bear the tidings, and had swooned away.