“One of the ten is dead,” Nita’s voice was bitter as mid-winter now. “The nine left shall give us sport.”
Still closer Causleen’s hand crept into Hardcastle’s. This was no puppet-game they played, of food and ease and the day’s routine. It was full life together, with death yapping at a gate they would not yield.
A babel of question sounded from outside, asking Nita what should be done with the nine.
“We shall drive them into the cave—to take him there, if they can.”
Hardcastle put Causleen behind him—roughly, and with haste—and stooped for his fowling-piece. And when Storm brushed against him, growling to be in the thick of what was coming, he forced him back to guard the mistress.
A squealing followed, and Hardcastle, looking out into the sunlight, saw the nine driven forward by their fellows till one by one they plunged into the cave.
Then he lifted his fowling-piece, and snapped the trigger.
The two Garsykes Men in front fell riddled with shot, blocking the narrow way, and those behind rushed out in panic, a prey for their own fellows. What fate befell them, Causleen could only guess; but their shrieks and the roar of ribald oaths were so appalling that she put both hands about her ears, striving to keep out the din.
A lull followed, and Hardcastle spoke no word, but stood listening to the mutterings of the enemy. Once he turned to put his hand on Causleen’s shoulder, and once to quieten Storm, then returned to silent waiting.
Nita’s voice sounded again, peremptory and clear.