Then he committed the crowning act of folly as tightening his grasp on his bridle he turned to the lads behind him.
“Drive them off!” he said.
The half-contemptuous command was almost insufferably galling. Carrington might have been dealing with mutinous dusky troopers instead of free Englishmen who farmed their own land, and the lads who had at first appeared disposed to side with him hesitated. He swung around in the saddle and looked at them.
“Must I speak twice?” he asked.
He turned again raising the heavy riding crop he carried, and I expected to see the big horse driven straight at Lyle, but one of the lads seized his leader’s bridle just in time.
“Hold on, sir,” he cried, and then while the big horse plunged he flung a few words at my companion.
“Don’t be a fool, Raymond. Get out of this—now!” he cried.
Lyle’s face was darkly flushed, and it appeared to cost him an effort to hold himself in hand.
“We’re going, sir,” he said. “Loose his bridle, Charley.”
The lad did as he was bidden, and Lyle motioned us to withdraw, after which he once more addressed Carrington.