“Stand!” cried Sir Murray, as they turned to flee down the long passage up which they had come—a passage leading to the pantry—“stand, or I fire! I cannot miss you at this distance!”
One of the men uttered an oath, in his rage, for now a light appeared at the other end of the passage, showing a footman, armed with a blunderbuss, which seemed to alarm him as much as it did the burglars.
“It’s no go,” muttered one of the men. “Stow that, gov’nor, and I’ll give up. Come on, Joe.”
“Not I,” exclaimed the other, making a spring to get by Sir Murray, but in vain: true to his word, the baronet fired, and with a shriek of agony, the man sprang into the air, and then fell heavily upon the stone floor, which was soon stained with his blood.
“Why didn’t you give up, then, like a man?” whined his sympathising companion, who was now hastily secured by two of the men-servants. “The gent wouldn’t have hurt yer, if yer had only give up when he arst. There, don’t pull a cove about like that, and yer needn’t tie so tight. I ain’t agoin’ to run away so as to get shot, I can tell you.”
“Lift the other up,” said Sir Murray, hoarsely; when the man was found to be bleeding profusely, though evidently not wounded in a vital spot.
“You are not hurt, Murray?” whispered a voice at his ear just then, and the baronet turned to find Lady Gernon anxiously scanning his face.
“No; not dead yet,” he said, brutally. “Go to your own room.”
Lady Gernon turned away with a weary sigh, and Sir Murray stood guard over his prisoners, when a shudder of terror ran through the party assembled; for, faintly heard, apparently from somewhere in the grounds, came what sounded like a wild appeal for help.