Barry had now to act entirely upon his own defence, with only one arm against four. He had this advantage, however, that they had no time to load their pistols, and had only their short butt-ends to fight with, whilst he had a good long arm.
But assistance—unexpected assistance—was at hand. A tall, gaunt figure strode along the strand, armed with a long fisherman’s pike, or hook, a weapon commonly used to take codfish off the fishing-lines. His was a sinewy arm, which few could resist or disable.
When such a man was aroused, harmless and peaceable as was his general character, his appearance became truly terrific; and his firm and steady step, and determined resolution, told that he was a soldier of cool courage, not easily to be beaten.
It was old Colson, or poor Robinson Crusoe, who, as it has been stated, was making his way with fish up the Orwell.
He and young Barry, now side by side, beat back the smugglers to their boat. Desperate was the contest; but there was no opposing the unearthly-looking being, with his bones, perforated plates, and charms dangling about his person. Well was it that he came so opportunely, for without his help the fate of young Barry had been sealed for ever. It was bad enough as it was. The smugglers retreated, and jumped into their boat. Laud, seizing a carabine, levelled it at Barry, whilst Luff pushed off the boat from the shore.
“Let fly at him, Will! let fly at him! Revenge yourself and my fall!”
A flash and loud explosion followed this advice. The smoke cleared off in a second, and the pirates saw but the stately form of Robin standing upon the shore. Young Barry—the generous, brave, and faithful Barry—lay stretched upon the sand.
Meantime Margaret had escaped. She had reached the Priory Farm; and rushing into the room where the harvest-men were assembled, fell down exhausted, with just strength of voice to say, “Fly—fly—fly to the shore! Barry will be murdered!”
The gamekeeper was off before Margaret arrived, having heard the report of the pistols; and he went into the wood. The young men ran off to the shore, and soon found the old fisherman supporting the head of the poor young man. The blood was flowing fast from his wounds, and he was in a swoon like death, though his heart beat, and he breathed painfully. They formed a double row; they lifted him up, and carried him along as gently as they could; but the poor fellow groaned with the agony of his shattered arm and wounded side.
Robin followed them, muttering curses against the foul fiend, and every moment pointing to the departing boat of the smugglers with a clenched fist, exclaiming, “The foul fiend be with you! He’ll consume you yet, ye cowards!”