“This way, lads,” rang out, and there was the rush of feet and a deeper groan.
“Eben, you’ve killed the officer,” whispered Aleck, in his horror.
“I was on’y fighting for my liberty, master,” whispered the man, hoarsely. “Master Aleck, you don’t like me, I know. I’m a bad ’un, I s’pose; but there’s my young wife and the little weans yonder waiting for me, and when they know—”
The great rough fellow could say no more, but choked.
“Run for it, then,” said Aleck; “wrong or right, we’ll try and cover you.”
“It’s no good, sir,” whispered the man; “there’s no end of ’em surrounding us, and I’m as weak now as a rat.”
He caught Aleck’s hand, as the lad thought, to cling to it imploringly, but the next moment he held it to his forehead, and it was snatched away in horror, for the man had evidently been cut down and was bleeding profusely.
“He’s wounded badly, Tom,” whispered Aleck, excitedly. “We must help him now.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Tom, gruffly.
“Ah, the boat! The boat!” panted the smuggler.