“They will be upon us in a moment,” said Tom, his face pale, but his eyes burning with a resolute light. “Miss Lucy, leave us; we cannot hope to hold them back, now; you will be in danger.”
The Tories were reloading in the hall; Clarage was roaring in furious delight and stamping about like an enraged lion. Cole was rapidly telling Tom all about what had been done at the barn, his fingers flying like mad.
“They are ours now,” stormed Clarage, in loud triumph. “We’ll make them beg; the rebels, the dogs—we’ll show them what king’s men can do.”
“It’s high time you were doing it.” Tom bent over the broken rail at the place from where Cole had torn his mighty club. “It seems to me, the loyal subjects of the king have performed rather badly to-day.”
“But we’ll do better from now on,” laughed Clarage, who had in the height of their triumph actually begun to grow good-humored. “Are you ready, gentlemen?” to the others.
“Yes, yes,” came a chorus.
To the astonishment of all, Tom Deering stepped boldly forward into plain view; he was without weapons, and Clarage, with a roar of laughter, at once jumped to the conclusion that he meant to surrender.
“He has weakened,” he yelled. “The rebel has weakened.”
“Shoot him down,” cried Mark Harwood, from well in the rear. “No quarter!”
Tom held up his hand, quietly; he showed not the slightest trace of fear, for the things that Cole had made him understand had filled him with confidence. The Tories below gazed up at him in astonishment. Tom spoke: