“Now, my jackanapes,” bellowed Clarage, “I’ll nail you against the door!”
The heavy blade cut downward with a swish. But it was met and deftly turned aside; and the wielder of it received a sharp, contemptuous rap upon the side of the head from the flat of the boy’s sabre, in return.
“Rats!” rang out Tom’s voice. “Rats, all of you! Insulters of girls and bullies of old men! You dare not face one who rides with Marion. I defy you all!”
For, at this exhibition of his dexterity with the blade which he held in his hand, the Tories had ceased to display any undue eagerness to come forward. Clarage, indeed, made well nigh mad with rage, strove to get in a cut; but the flashing sabre of the swamp-rider drove him back with ease.
“Pistols,” cried one. “At him with the pistols.”
“They are in the holsters in the stable,” returned another. This was a fact that had been noted by Tom; the total absence of firearms among the Tories was the reason for his, seemingly, uncalled-for boldness.
“Are we to let one boy hold us at bay,” shouted Clarage, flecks of white foam appearing upon his lip, so great was his rage. “At him, all together! Cut him down!”
A circle of drawn swords flashed in Tom’s eyes; but before they could strike, he had vanished through the door and clapped it in their faces.
“After him,” bawled Clarage, in a hoarse, thick voice, as he tore the door open and dashed into the hall. “Don’t let him escape.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, my dear sirs,” came a steady, resolute voice from above. In amaze they glared upward. About midway on the staircase stood the bold youth who had so braved their wrath, his sabre point resting upon the step upon which he stood. “I have not the slightest intention of escaping; your company is too entertaining for me to desire to leave you.”