“So she says. Others say she is the woman who was with the Scotch renegade. I know nothing of it and care less. I obey orders.”
“Sir,” said Frances, coldly, “I beg you not to interfere. It is a mistake that will be explained in due time, but these men must do as they are told. That much you should know.”
Although her words were spoken harshly enough, her eloquent eyes were bringing him to his senses and a realization of the unwisdom and futility of his behaviour. Before he could speak again, a sharp voice behind him rang out: “Why are you loitering there? Get on with you!”
Without turning, he knew who the speaker was, and if he had not, the gleam of fear in the girl’s eyes might have warned him of peril.
“This man questions my orders,” said the officer.
“No man has a right to question your orders. Who is he?”
Armstrong was edging away, but De Courcy spurred the horse he rode in a semicircle to cut off his retreat. Instantly the Frenchman raised a shout that echoed through the streets of the town, and arrested every foot within hearing.
“The Scot! The Scot!” he roared. “Stop that man; never mind the woman. After him. Sound the signal and close the bridge. The thousand pounds are mine, by God!”
Now Bruce was doing his best down the main street of Carlisle. A dozen shots spattered fire harmlessly, and a big bell began to toll. Armstrong was well ahead of the troopers who followed him, and he gained ground at every stride. The pursuers were continually augmented from each lane and alley, and came thundering after the flying man like a charge of cavalry. A turn in the road brought the bridge in sight, and Armstrong saw it was guarded only at the end nearest him, and that merely by two lone pikemen. He would mow them down like grass, he said to himself, as he drew his sword.
“Stand aside,” he yelled. “The Scot is loose, and we’re after him.”