“Gentlemen,” said he, his fearless gaze traveling over them as he stood there, “I bid you good-day.”
“Tom Deering,” cried Mark Harwood, astounded.
“Quite so!” The young swamp-rider’s eyes were filled with scorn as he addressed himself to his Tory cousin. “You are surprised to see me, I take it.”
“Who is this fool that places his head in the lion’s mouth?” roared Clarage, his deep voice sounding like the rumbling of distant thunder.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Tom’s level gaze met Clarage’s furious one, with quiet assurance. “There are no lions here; it is more like a nest of rats.”
With a snarl the big Tory dragged his heavy, brass hilted sword from its scabbard.
“Then feel of the rat’s teeth,” he growled drawing back his arm for a tremendous blow.
“It’s the scout of the Swamp-Fox,” cried Mark Harwood. “Cut him down.”
Tom smiled at the eagerness in his cousin’s voice, and at his very evident disinclination to try to put the words into execution upon his own account. The careful teaching of Victor St. Mar had not been forgotten; on the contrary, Tom had not ceased to practice with small sword and sabre each day of his life; until, at last, there was not a man in Marion’s brigade that could stand before him sword in hand.
This gave him a feeling of confidence when Clarage drew back his heavy blade to cut him down, as Mark Harwood had cried out for him to do. The Tory had great strength, it was true, but the lad’s practiced eye told him that there was absolutely no skill behind it.