“Look! Not too late, Sim,” he whispered. “They’re over yonder. We must make for that lane. I’ll go this way to cut that fellow off; you go to the left there, to meet him if I turn him back.”
“Think the horses are there?” whispered Saint Simon hoarsely.
“Think!” cried Denis, in a low, harsh voice that he did not know as his own. “No: I am sure.”
No further words passed, for, separating at once, Denis dashed off to the right to make for the far corner of the field, in the faint hope of reaching it and getting through into the lane in time, while Saint Simon ran swiftly to the left to get into the horse-track there and follow the marauders up.
Chapter Eleven.
First blood.
Denis was in no trim for running, but he ran.
“This would wake anyone up,” he muttered to himself. “The villain! The dog! I see it all: he must have given those two fellows drink till they were helpless, and then led the horses quietly away. Oh, if I had only been ten minutes sooner, instead of sleeping like the untrusty cur I was! I never dare face the King now! I’m running now as hard as ever I can run, not to bring back the horses, but to go right away. I never dare show my face before him again. Here,” he thought, “am I to go on whining like some foolish girl? I can—I will get there first, in time to stop him. I never used my sword in earnest yet, but if I can only get face to face with that insolent hound I’ll make him bleed, or he shall me. Too late! Too late!” he groaned, for the man’s head had disappeared beyond the hedge.