"Where are you hurt?" asked Lawrence, looking from the dagger to Rumsey.
"I?—I?—Oh!" stammered Rumsey confusedly; "well, well, 'tis nothing to speak of. A scratch; hardly a mere scratch."
"Who's dagger is this?" demanded Lee, stooping down, and closely inspecting the weapon in Goodenough's grasp.
"Whose should it be?" rejoined Rumsey, letting his eyes fall shiftily beneath the penetrating glance of Lee, as it fell on him.
"Faith! well, only I never knew him to carry so much as a bare bodkin about him," said Lawrence.
The traitor's tale.
"Then that shows how little you do know him," retorted Rumsey. "A more bloodthirsty, cantankerous fellow than he is, isn't to be found among the lot of us. Why, he's for lopping everybody who doesn't say 'snap' to his 'snip.'"
"'Tis very strange," said Lee thoughtfully.
"A nice thing," grumbled on Rumsey, letting his eyes rest on Lee's left hand, which hung straight down beside him. "A nice thing to attack a man in this fashion, as if he was a viper in a rut. And it's preciously fortunate I'm always prepared for any surprise. You'd find it a hard matter to catch Richard Rumsey on the hip;" and he smiled a smile of infinite self-complacency. "What's that dangling in your fingers there?"
The key.