“Well, get them out,” said the same commanding voice, and in the officer a short distance from him, Roy recognised the one he had met with the flag of truce.
“Now, then, if you value your life,” snarled Pawson in the boy’s ear, “order those fools to come out before we blow them to pieces with a keg of powder. Do you hear? Come forward and speak!”
Roy felt a fierce desire to spit in the traitor’s face, but he mastered himself and stepped forward.
“Ah, you’ve come to your senses, then,” said Pawson. “Lucky for you, my popinjay. Now, then, tell them to surrender.”
“Why?” said Roy, spitefully. “They don’t know what it means.”
“Speak!” cried Pawson; and he pricked the lad with the point of his sword.
Roy in those terrible moments had to fight hard to be dignified, as he felt he ought to be, before the enemy; but the desire was strong upon him, when he felt a slight prick in the side from the keen point of the sword, to turn round and kick his aggressor with all his might.
Then he spoke.
“Sergeant Martlet, corporal, Farmer Raynes, all of you, I’m a prisoner, and can’t help myself. There are two or three hundred men here. Can you hear me?”
“Ay, ay, sir; go on,” cried Ben.