“Too late!” cried Mellersh, as a tramping was heard, and Sir Matthew Bray, a sergeant, and half a dozen dragoons marched quickly up.
Fred Denville’s whole manner had changed.
He dashed to the front. There was no escape there, and the soldiers were already in the hall.
Rushing to the back window he threw it up, but it moved stiffly, and before he had it well raised, the picket was in the room.
“Surrender!” cried the sergeant. “Halt, or I fire.”
For answer Fred Denville rose on the sill and leaped down into the garden, a good dozen feet, and ran swiftly for the wall at the bottom.
“Halt!” roared Sir Matthew; but the fugitive paid no heed, and in response to rapid orders four carbines were raised, there was a ringing little volley, and, to Linnell’s horror, Fred Denville made a bound, and fell upon his face.
“Oh, this is too bad, sir!” roared Mellersh fiercely.
“Mind your own affairs, sir,” said Sir Matthew sharply. “Saved him from being shot after a court-martial.”
In a few minutes the wounded man was borne in and laid in the hall, where Cora Dean was one of the first to fetch restoratives, while her mother brought a pillow and placed beneath his head, for a couple of the dragoons had been sent to fetch the means to transport him to the barracks.