Five men sprang to their feet in a moment, and dirks were flashing in the lamplight.
“Hold, you scoundrels, hold!” cried a tall and handsome man in the garb of a sailor, rushing into the cave, and throwing himself, sword in hand, between the belligerents.
“What!” he continued, “quarrelling when we should be busy at work. I came in good time, it seems.”
The Scotchmen sheathed their dirks, but sulkily.
“Right, Captain Bland,” said Rob McLure, “only Long Bill there thought fit to insult us wi’ his Saxon brag. We had the cave afore him, and did weel in it, and we’re independent yet, and fit to clear the English bodies out o’ the country, tho’ we’re but five and they are two to one—ay, and give their bodies to the corbies to pick.”
“Bill,” said Captain Bland, “you began this unseemly squabble; it is for you to apologise.”
“I do so heartily,” said Bill; “I bear no grudge against the Scotch.”
“Nor I, nor I, nor I,” cried half-a-dozen voices. Then hands were shaken all round, and peace restored.
Bland pitched down his cap—long black ringlets floating over his shoulder as he did so—and sank into a seat, as if weary.
“Give me food and drink; the long walk has quite tired me. Your Scottish hills, McLure, are hard on Saxon legs. By the way,” he added, “two of my fellows are outside, and they’ve caught a couple of gipsy creatures; they may or may not be spies. Bring them in, the little ones may be cold and hungry.”