A moment later there was a sound of harsh voices, the noise of stones striking against steel, more pistol-shots, and then quietness, broken at length by the return of the troopers bearing between them a man who moaned and cursed lustily as he was carried by none too tender hands.
"How now, Sedgewyke!" thundered his officer. "Who is this? 'Tis not the man we lost. Where is he?"
The sergeant saluted, and told his story: The troop was riding in a straggling manner, one of the men, who had a prisoner bound behind him (he with the scarred face), being in the rear. Without warning a stout rope that had been stretched between two trees on opposite sides of the road was dropped, and, catching the unfortunate soldier under the chin, hurled him and his prisoner to the ground. In a moment a party of men had run from the cover of the brushwood, freed the captive, and, after hamstringing the trooper's horse, had made their escape to the depths of the forest before the rest of the escort could realize what had occurred.
Pursued by the soldiers, they let fly a shower of stones, and in the confusion that followed had made good their retreat, with one exception-- a man who had received a ball in the right ankle.
Though chagrined by the loss of their prisoner, the capture of one of his rescuers was a redeeming feature of the fray, and the latest captive was brought before the officers for the purpose of being interrogated.
He was a young man, scarce more than twenty years of age, with a heavy poll of red hair. His sinewy arms were tattooed with various devices, while on his chest, exposed during the scuffle, a death's-head and cross-bones were crudely drawn. When questioned he maintained a surly silence, only asking for water in a dialect that, country-bred though I am, I could not readily understand.
"Methinks I have met others of this kind before," remarked the elder officer. "A Dorset man, I'll wager, and, that being so, he's either smuggler or pirate. Whether he be of Poole or Weymouth 'tis all the same. Far rather would I meet Dutchman or Frenchman in fair fight than be cast ashore on the devil-haunted coast of Purbeck. Now, Sedgewyke, I pray you dispatch that horse and let us hasten on, unless we wish to be benighted on the highway."
The sergeant saluted again and retired, while Middleton and his friend returned to the carriage. A shot announced that the maimed animal's sufferings were ended, and the troopers, with their two prisoners now safely in the centre, broke into a trot, the coach swaying to and fro as it rumbled over the rough road.
The sun was sinking low when we reached the summit of Portsdown, a long stretch of chalky down, whence I saw Portsmouth for the first time.
To one living in the hilliest and most picturesque part of Hampshire and Sussex this first glimpse came as a disappointment. I saw below me an island so flat as to make it appear difficult to tell where the land ended and where the water began. Save for a few trees and some scattered houses there was little to break the dreariness of it, while, the tide being out (as I afterwards learnt), long expanses of mud on either side increased this aspect of monotonous desolation. At the far end of the island I could distinguish the cluster of houses that formed the town. At the near end was a narrow creek, which we must needs cross to gain our destination, while away on the right was a square tower, which, they told me, was the castle of Portchester.