"Ye dursn't, you dog."
"Daren't I?" said the Captain, springing up from his seat. "Dead dogs tell no tales, and why should I not? I dare anything—I neither fear God nor regard man—I fear neither angel, spirit, nor devil! and think you I fear an old rascal like you?"
Some terrible catastrophe might have happened had it not been for L'Estrange, who saw they were both inflamed with drink; he interposed himself between the brawlers, and tried to make peace by insisting on the Captain accompanying him home, and Bill's appeasing his wrath, saying they had been there quite long enough; the plan was a famous one, and if they left Bill to himself he would soon come round to it.
Muttering indistinct oaths and curses old Bill unbarred the door once more, and let the two friends—if we may so call them—out. Taking L'Estrange's arm, the Captain proceeded with him across the bleak common.
"Are you not glad you told me all, you unbelieving fellow?"
"I am. I hope it will succeed."
"Sure to succeed. By-the-by, how did you come out here? marched like me, I suppose, and a cold tramp we shall have of it," said the Captain, buttoning up his coat.
"No, I rode out."
"Rode, and where the deuce did you leave your horse? If you left it on the common, ten to one some dog of a smuggler has noosed it."
"Never you fear, I brought my man with me, and he is taking care of them."