“You mean,” I said, indignantly, “that they’re not going to try to catch Buckhurst and Mornac?”
“That’s what I mean; they’re scared as rabbits over these rumors of Uhlans in the west and north.”
“Well,” said I, disgusted, “it appears to me that Buckhurst is going to get off scot-free this time—and Mornac, too! Did you know that Mornac was here?”
“Know it? I saw him an hour ago, marshalling a new company of malcontents in the square—a bad lot, Scarlett—deserters from Chanzy’s army, from Bourbaki, from Garibaldi—a hundred or more line soldiers, dragoons without horses, francs-tireurs, Garibaldians, even a Turco, from Heaven knows where—bad soldiers who disgrace France—marauders, cowardly, skulking mobiles—a sweet lot, Scarlett, to be let loose in Madame de Vassart’s vicinity.”
“I think so, too,” I said, seriously.
“And I earnestly agree with you,” muttered Speed. “That’s all I have to report, except that your friend, Robert the Lizard, is out yonder flat on his belly under a gorse-bush, and he wants to see you.”
“The Lizard!” I exclaimed. “Come on, Speed. Where is he?”
“Yonder, clothed in somebody’s line uniform. He’s 334 one of them. Scarlett, do you trust him? He has a rifle.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, impatiently. “Come on, man! It’s all right; the fellow is watching Buckhurst for me.” And I gave Speed a nervous push toward the moors. We started, Speed ostentatiously placing his revolver in his side-pocket so that he could shoot through his coat if necessary. I walked beside him, closely scanning the stretch of open moor for a sign of life, knowing all the while that it is easier to catch moon-beams in a net than to find a poacher in the bracken. But Speed had marked him down as he might mark a squatting quail, and suddenly we flushed him, rifle clapped to his shoulder.
“None of that, my friend,” growled Speed; but the poacher at sight of me had already lowered the weapon.