Roger Galt came staggering up from the gates, a bludgeon in his hand. Mr. Bradbury looked carefully to his pistols. I, staring up at the barred window of the room where I had been held a prisoner, cried out suddenly and pointed upwards. For a hand had drawn aside the sacking, and my uncle stood looking down upon us. My uncle—nay, though in the greyness of the morn the face had seemed my uncle’s for the instant; this face was lean and sunburnt, the eyes sunken, the grey hair was blown back by the wind. The face was gone immediately; crying out, I rushed forward to the door, as Sir Gavin’s men came plunging forward with a great log between them; still crying out I know not what, I gripped it with them, and aided them propel it with a crash against the door. Mr. Bradbury beside me was calling out, “What is it, lad? What did ye see? Who stood at the window?”
And I cried back, as again we staggered under the weight of the log, and again propelled it against the door, “My father! I think my father—held a prisoner here!”
With a crash, the rotten timbers and rusted ironwork broke before us. And we were rushing forward into the house.
Chapter XXXVII. My Uncle Comes to his Own
In the half dark of the house, as we leaped forward—Sir Gavin and I, the runners and his fellows coming scurrying after—I saw Martin Baynes and Bart spring back before us, and gain the stairway. Martin faced us there—his pistol quivering in his hand, and Bart at his back with cutlass lifted. Sir Gavin cried out, “In the King’s name! Down with your arms! Or, by God, you’ll hang for it.”
Martin spat out a curse in answer and drew trigger; at the blaze and roar of the pistol, Sir Gavin hopped smartly back; flung up his arm and fired. Martin cried out, and fell down before us. Bart, leaning forward, cutlass in hand, leaped down suddenly upon us. I, slipping aside to the wall, heard the clash of his blade upon a tough bludgeon, and the fall of one of Sir Gavin’s fellows; instantly it seemed that the runners were on Bart, and the cutlass was dragged from his hand, and clanking against the stones. I had no thought save only to mount the stair. I saw faces peering down through the dark above me; I knew the folk for Barwise and big Nick; but as Sir Gavin, pushing me aside and snatching my pistol from me, plunged up the stair, they did not stay, and vanished in the dark before the door, scurrying away, I took it, to shelter in one of the rooms. I reached the stair-head; groping in the dark, I found the key yet in the lock, and presently had the door open, and with Sir Gavin was staring into the room where I had been held those days a prisoner. There faced us a tall man, poorly-clad and travel-stained, staring at us with sombre eyes; looking upon my father’s face, I understood the tragedy of weary years of suffering and exile written upon it; feature for feature he seemed like my uncle—yet so unlike.
He said no word as we advanced, but looked upon us dully, as without comprehension; Sir Gavin, gasping for very breathlessness as from excitement, demanded of him, “Who are ye? Aren’t ye Richard Craike?”
“Richard Craike—yes—come from overseas, brought to this place, and gaoled here.”
I sprang forward, stretching out my hands. I cried out, “I am John Craike—your son! Don’t you know me, father? Don’t you know me?”
His hands clasped mine,—rough, toil-worn hands—all trembling; he bent his head and stared down at me, and whispered, “John Craike! Ay, ay—John Craike,” in lifeless tone.