“Stand back all of you,” cried a stern voice.
“Give up, you scoundrels, the game’s over,” cried Sir John. “Close in, my lads.”
He dashed forward at once, and the major and keeper well seconded his efforts, but the latter received a heavy blow on the forehead, and went down, felled like an ox, the major was tripped up, and the man whom Sir John attacked proved too much for him, getting him down and kneeling upon his chest.
“Shoot them if they come, and then step forrard,” cried a shrill harsh voice, and four reports followed, the poachers sending the shot rattling in amongst the branches over the watchers’ heads, the pine needles and twigs pattering down, and the result was that Thompson, Captain Rolph’s man, began to retire very rapidly in one direction, closely followed by two more, and while others from the right flank also beat a retreat.
The scuffle that took place to right and left was soon over, the keeper’s followers not caring to risk their lives in an encounter with armed and desperate men. There was the sound of blows and another shot or two from the poachers, who were eight or nine in number, under the guidance of the man who had felled the keeper, and got Sir John down.
“It’s all right, my lads,” growled a voice. “Tie ’em well and let’s be off.”
“Here, rope!” said a fresh voice; and then there was another scuffle, as Sir John and the major were forced over on their faces, and their wrists tied behind them.
“Here, help! Rolph, Rolph!” cried Sir John.
“Hold your row, or—”
There was a dull sound like the blow of the butt of a gun on a man’s head, and Sir John uttered a furious oath.