“Indeed, oho! then you must needs have the cash wherewith to buy the cattle. Where is it?”
“In ma pooch,” said the shepherd with a deprecating glance at his pocket.
“Hand it over, then, my good fellow. Fanatics are not allowed to have money or to purchase cattle nowadays.”
“But, honoured sir, we’re no fannyteeks. We’re honest shepherds.”
The lamb-like expression of Quentin Dick’s face as he said this was such that Wallace had considerable difficulty in restraining an outburst of laughter, despite their critical position. He maintained his gravity, however, and firmly grasped his staff, which, like that of his companion, was a blackthorn modelled somewhat on the pattern of the club of Hercules.
“Here, Melville,” said the first trooper, “hold my horse while I ease this ‘honest shepherd’ of his purse.”
Sheathing his sword, he drew a pistol from its holster, and, handing the reins to his companion, dismounted.
“Noo!” exclaimed Quentin, bringing his staff down on the trooper’s iron headpiece with a terrific thwack. Like a flash of lightning the club of Wallace rang and split upon that of the other horseman, who fell headlong to the ground.
Strong arms have seldom occasion to repeat a well-delivered blow. While the soldiers lay prone upon the road their startled horses galloped back the way they had come.
“That’s unfort’nit,” said Quentin. “Thae twa look like an advance-gaird, an’ if so, the main body’ll no be lang o’ gallopin’ up to see what’s the maitter. It behoves us to rin!”