“Oh, I don’t want to insult you,” he said: “and perhaps I am as much of a gentleman as you are. But look here; who are you?”
“You know,” said the lad bitterly. “I give up, I tell you. Be content that you have got the upper hand of me. I won’t struggle against fate; only make me one promise,” he continued, in a bitter, mocking tone.
“Well, what is it?” said Waller.
“Come and see your prisoner hung, for I suppose your brutal Dutchmen will not have me shot.”
“I say,” said Waller, staring more wonderingly than ever at his prisoner, “you are using very fine language. Are you a bit off your head? Who wants to hang or shoot you? What Dutchmen?”
“The enemy—the brutal soldiery, of course.”
“I say, look here, I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Waller, “and I don’t know who you are, only that you jumped out at me like a highwayman with a pistol. I say, what are you?”
“One of the spies, I suppose,” said the boy mockingly. “One of the poor unfortunate wretches you people are hunting through the woods.”
“Nonsense!” cried Waller. “You must be fancying all this. There are no soldiers here hunting people. Do you know where you are?”
“Yes; in the New Forest.”