"I will swear."
"Come—I must have another to confirm your word."
"Call up the old father, if he be not already discharged."
Fox for a moment was stunned. He realized his danger. He had run his head into the noose prepared for Anthony, and that five hundred pounds had saved Anthony and sold him.
The paralyzing effect of this discovery lasted but for a moment. Then he burst forth into a torrent of explanation, confused, stuttering in his rage and fear, now in a scream, then in a hoarse croak.
Captain Fogg rapped on the table.
"Gag him," ordered he, "stop his mouth. We have made a mistake—locked up the wrong man. This is the veritable Anthony Cleverdon, the rebel. Stop his mouth instantly. He deafens me."
Fox—writhing, plunging, kicking, struggling to be free—was quickly overmastered, his mouth gagged, his feet bound as well as his hands. He stood snorting, his eyes glaring, the sweat pouring from his brow, and his red hair bristling.
In another moment old Squire Cleverdon was introduced, looking deadly pale. He had not been released—had not as yet heard that his son had delivered himself up. He looked with indifference about him. He believed he was brought up to receive sentence, and he was prepared to receive it with dignity.
"Old man," said the Captain, "a word with you. Friswell, you may stay. Sergeant, keep at the door. I want a short and direct answer to a question I put to you. Prisoner, do you know that fellow there, with his hair on end and his mouth stopped?"