"Not so fast, Alan. We're making too much rumpus!"
We slowed. Then we stopped to listen. The woods seemed full of voices. Heavy tread of feet, pounding in the brush. Behind us. Then ahead of us! We crouched; no use running now. We were surrounded. Torches flared. A dog was howling. I saw, off in the trees, the heavy figure of a man holding a blazing torch aloft. He held an ancient fowling piece half raised; the dog was on a leash leading him.
Figures closed in on us. They saw us in the light of their torches.
"No use, Alan."
Alan stuck his revolver in his pocket. We stood up, holding Nanette.
The Dutchman seized us, and stood jabbering. Sturdy fellows, in shirts and broad jackets, flowing pantaloons and hobnailed shoes. They were almost all bareheaded; hastily dressed. They stood amazed at us. They pulled at Nanette.
"Let her alone," said Alan.
It was a mistake. English! One of them spoke English. He said:
"You English?"
They tore us apart from each other. They hurried us off. I heard one say: "English! The damned English here already! Well can I speak it! Ho, but our good Peter will be pleased at this midnight foray."