The men jumped aside, glad they were not called upon to arrest such a progress as they beheld coming down upon them. It was apparently one of their own officers who commanded them, and there was neither time to think or question. As the horse’s hoofs struck the bridge, the deep crash of a cannon boomed from the castle, and before the fugitive reached the centre there arose at the other end of the bridge—he could not guess from whence they came—a troop of horse, as if the thunder of the gun had called the company magically from the earth. Bruce stopped on the crown of the bridge, at a touch of the rein, quivering with excitement, raised his head, and gave a snort of defiance at the blockade ahead of him. Armstrong glanced back; the bridge had closed on him like a trap, both ends stopped by forces impossible for one man to contend against.
“That cannon-shot did it. Well planned,” he growled to himself, his horse now drawn across the bridge, alert for the word of command whatever it might be. Below, the swollen Eden, lipping full from bank to bank, rolled yellow and surly to the sea. Right and left, at either end of the bridge, stood a mass of steel-clad men, impregnable as the walls of the castle itself. De Courcy sprang off his horse and advanced with a valour which Armstrong, sitting there, apparently calm, had not given him credit for.
“He’s my man,” he cried. “Shoot him dead if he raises his hand.” Then to the Scot. “Surrender quietly. You have no chance. A score of muskets are turned on you.”
“If they shoot, some of them will wing you. Better warn them not to fire,” replied Armstrong mildly, as if proffering to a friend advice which did not concern himself.
“Do you surrender?”
“Come and take me, if you are anxious for the thousand pounds. It’s worth the money.”
The Frenchman hesitated, edging cautiously along the parapet, so that if his friends shot he would be as much as possible aside from the line of fire. Seemingly his confidence in their marksmanship had not been augmented by Armstrong’s warning.
“If you raise your hand to a weapon,” said De Courcy, “they will fire on you, and I cannot stop them. They will not wait my word.”
“I know. I shall not raise my hand.”
The Frenchman dashed forward and seized the bridle of Bruce.