"I am a friend," cried Dennis, while still separated by some yards from them.
"My heart, that's a true word!" gasped the white man, and Dennis thrilled with joy as he heard the broad accent of a south-countryman. "A friend, true; and a blessed word to Haymoss Turnpenny's ears."
They gripped hands, and looked each other squarely in the face. There was a lump in Dennis's throat, and a mist of tears in the elder man's eyes. Then Turnpenny glanced over his shoulder with a sudden access of fear.
"We bean't safe," he muttered, and there was a world of terror in his gesture and tone. "They'll find us, and then 'twill be hell-fire. Can 'ee hide us?"
"Let us first release that black man."
"Ay, sure, fellow creature, although black. I'll do it, in a trice."
He walked towards the trees where the last man was still struggling to force out the staple. At this moment Dennis saw one of the others, who had released his feet from the hobbling logs, springing past him with uplifted axe, the fire of fury in his eyes. Turning, he noticed that the Spaniard he had felled was moving. He had but just time to dash after the man and prevent him from butchering his prostrate enemy. The Indian drew back in surprise, and Dennis stood on guard until the Englishman joined him.
"Bean't he killed dead? Why didn't 'ee kill him, lad? T'others be dead as door nails, and won't trouble you nor me no more."
"We'll let this fellow live; he may be useful to us."
"Why didn't 'ee kill him with your sword or caliver? He's vermin, as they be all."