“Stash yer palaver, dang yer! an’ don’t ‘good fellow’ me! Spread yer wrists now, an’ get ’em ready for the rope. Just because you’re English I’ll tie ’em all the tighter—daang me if I don’t!”
Perceiving that remonstrance was thrown away upon the renegade ruffian, and that resistance would only lead to ill-treatment, the young Englishman extended his hands to be tied. The bandit seized hold of him by both wrists, and commenced twisting them so as to turn them back to back. The moment his eyes rested on the left hand—upon the little finger showing a red longitudinal scar—he dropped both as if they had been bars of hot iron, at the same time starting backwards with a cry. It was a cry that betokened recognition, mingled with malignant joy!
The surprise which this occasioned to the captive was followed by another springing from a different cause. He, too, had effected a recognition. In the brutal brigand before him, he identified the ex-gamekeeper, poacher, and murderer—Doggy Dick!
“Ho! ho!” cried the latter, dancing over the ground like one who had gone frantic from receiving news of some unexpected fortune. “Ho! ho! You it be, Muster Henry Hardin’! Who would ’a expected to find you here among the mountains o’ Italy i’stead o’ the Chiltern Hills, where ye were so snug an’ comfortable! An’ wi’ such a poor coat upon yer back! Why, what ha’ become o’ the old General, an’ his big property—the park, the farms, the woods, the covers, and the pheasants? Ah! the pheasants! You remember them, don’t ye? And so do I too. So do Doggy Dick—daangd well!”
As the renegade said this, a grin of diabolical significance made itself perceptible on his otherwise inexpressive features. Henry Harding perceived it, but made no remark. He knew that words would be of no use.
“I dar’ say Nigel, that sweet half-brother o’ yours, has got ’em all—the park, and the farms, and the woods, and the covers, and the pheasants. Ah! and I’d take my affedavy o’ ’t he’s got that showy gal—she you were so sweet upon, Muster Henry. She warn’t likely to cotton to a man wi’ such a coat on his back as you have on yourn. Why, it look like it had come out o’ a pawn-shop!”
By this time the blood of the Hardings had got up to boiling point. Despite his stupidity, Doggy Dick perceived it. He saw that he had gone too far in his provocation, and regretted having done so, before making fast the hands of him he had provoked. He would have retreated, but it was too late. Before he could turn, Henry Harding’s left hand was upon his throat, the scarred finger pressing upon his larynx, and with the right he received a blow on his skull that felled him to the ground, like an ox under the stroke of a pole-axe.
In an instant the young Englishman was surrounded by the bandits and their wine-bibbing associates. Half-a-score flung themselves simultaneously upon him. He was soon overpowered, bound hand and foot, and then beaten in his bonds—some of the village damsels clapping their hands, and by their cries applauding the conquest of brute strength over injured innocence.