Then there was a quick struggle, and the convict staggered, tripped over a loose block of stone, and fell with a crash. There was an ominous murmur here, and the men stood hesitating, each disposed to make a rush and revenge the fall of his companion; but there was no leader to combine the force and lead them on, and, taking advantage of their hesitation, Bayle stooped down, lifted the insensible man, and strode away.
The convicts were taken by surprise at this act, and some were for fetching him back, but the remainder were for letting him go.
“Take the swaddy’s guns, lads, and let’s be off at once,” said one of the party, and the two muskets were seized, a convict presenting the bayonet of the piece he had secured at the breast of one of the fallen men, both of whom lay half-stunned and bleeding on the rough ground.
“Shall I, boys?” he said.
“No; hold hard,” cried a voice, and a member of the party who had been in pursuit of the other portion of the guard came up. “Tie them hand and foot, and leave them so as they can’t give warning. Who’s that going up the hill?”
“Parson and the orficer,” said one of the men.
“And who’s that running yonder?”
“That Irishman who was in with us—O’Hara.”
“Can any one shoot and bring him down? Give me a musket.”
He snatched the piece offered to him, took careful aim by resting the musket on the edge of the scarped bank, and fired.