“Go back,” whispered Mark, “and tell my father whom we have found.”
“Leave the light?” said the boy.
“No, take it. Tell him all you have heard.”
The light glided away, and the next minute a faint sigh told that Sir Morton was regaining his senses, his complete recovery thereof being announced by a trembling pressure of the hand.
“Weak,” he whispered. “I was badly wounded. So Heaven has sent my greatest enemy to save us.”
“Us?” cried Mark excitedly. “Then Ralph Darley’s sister is safe.”
“Will be, I pray,” said Sir Morton feebly. “I, her father, can do no more.”
Sir Edward came up, in company with Dan Rugg and five men, approaching cautiously with one lantern; and they were in the act of descending to Mark and the prisoner when a hoarse bullying voice was heard from a distance, the words echoing and reverberating as along a vaulted passage.
“Now then, back to your den, old fool. Don’t be a week fetching that water.”
“I—I am going back,” cried Sir Morton, and then in a whisper—“the light—the light. I will soon return.”