By a Traitor’s Hand.
The last words were spoken as he hurried across to the door-way in the gate tower; and before he reached the platform at the top, he could hear Ben Martlet storming and shouting at the men, who were very silent; but from the noise of footsteps it was evident that they were running to and fro.
As Roy reached the top of the stairs, it was to find his exit on to the platform blocked by Ben and the corporal, the former being decked with the flag hanging over his shoulder like a mantle. They were evidently busy with the halyards at the little opening, down beside which the flag-pole butt was fixed in iron loops, and through which window the flag was hoisted and the halyards secured.
“What’s the meaning of this?” cried Roy, breathlessly. “The enemy will think we have surrendered.”
“Let ’em come, then, sir, and we’ll show ’em we haven’t,” roared Ben, fiercely.
“But why was the flag hauled down?”
“Wasn’t hauled down, sir. Come down with a run right on to the leads.”
“What! Did the line break?”
“I wish it had broke, sir. You just look at that!” And he held out an end of the thin, strong hempen cord which ran through a pulley at the top of the pole, and to which the flag was always attached.
“Cut?” cried Roy.