“Because I no longer have it.”
“What!” Pennington sprang up, his high, narrow forehead flushing. “Then who has?”
“I think,” said the boy, “that it is in the hands of one who will make good use of it.”
Consternation was written deeply in the face of Master Pennington; he had raised a clenched hand, an exclamation trembled upon his lips when the landlord rushed into the room amid a great clatter of pans and kettles. He was pale of face and affrighted of manner; and close at his heels, with his drawn sword in his hand, strode the adventurer, Gilbert Scarlett.
[CHAPTER VIII—EZRA MAKES UP HIS MIND TO A DANGEROUS VENTURE]
The surly landlord of the “Indian’s Head” danced into the centre of his public room, the expression of fear expanding upon his face.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, appealing to Ezra and Pennington, “I demand your protection. I am beset by this man, who would kill me in my own house.”
“If you prefer to have it so,” spoke Scarlett with a swishing whir of his heavy blade, “I will dispatch you upon the lawn if you are possessed of one, or, in default of that, in the public road. I am of a liberal nature, and would as well please you as not in the place of your taking off.”
His agile point followed the churlish landlord in his caperings.
“Sir,” cried the man, addressing himself to Pennington, “I crave you to speak a word to this mad villain, who seems bound to spill my blood.”