And as he said this, the robber with a sweep of his formidable weapon indicated the circle of shrubbery—near the centre of which the scene was being enacted.
The eyes of the two travellers involuntarily followed the pointing of the pike.
Sure enough they were surrounded. Six or seven fierce-looking men, all apparently armed with the same sort of weapon as that in the hands of their leader, stood at equal distances from each other around the opening—their forms half concealed by the trees and gorse. They were all standing perfectly motionless. Not even their weapons seemed to stir; and not one of them had as yet spoken, or stepped forward; though it might have been expected they would have done so—if only to strengthen the demand made by their spokesman.
“Keep your places, comrades!” commanded the latter. “There’s no need for any o’ ye to stir. These are civilish gentlemen. We don’t want to hurt them. They bean’t a-goin’ to resist.”
“But they be” interrupted the cavalier, in a mocking but determined tone, at the same time whipping a pistol from its holster—“I am to the death; and so too will the gallant youth by my side.”
Walter had drawn his slender rapier—the only weapon he possessed.
“What! yield to a pack of cowardly footpads?” continued the cavalier, cocking his pistol, as he spoke. “No—sooner—”
“Your blood on your own head then!” shouted the robber, at the same time rushing forward, and extending his pike so that its steel point was almost in contact with the counter of the cavalier’s horse.
The moonlight shone full upon the footpad, showing a face of fierce aspect—features of wild expression—black beard and whiskers—a thick shock of dark hair matted and tangled—eyes bloodshot, and gleaming with a lurid light!
It was fortunate for their owner, that the moonlight favoured the identification of those fear-inspiring features—else that moment might have been his last.