Meanwhile we reached the spot where the wretched gardener lay.
He only had a small leaden pellet in his leg, but the shock had quite overwhelmed him, being unused to warfare, and no doubt he believed himself on the road to a speedy dissolution.
At any rate he bawled lustily in terror one instant, and then called upon his patron saint to ferry him over the Styx the next, mixing up his appeals in a manner truly laughable, until Robbins made a threatening gesture which hushed his vociferation.
“The key!” I shouted, for if anything the noise had swelled to still greater volume, and one must raise his voice to be heard.
“Yes—I am looking for it—I would swear he had it in his hand,” cried the mate, already down on his hands and knees.
“We must find it—everything depends on it.”
“He must have thrown it when he fell.”
It was a bright suggestion, for just beyond the fellow was a dense cluster of bushes.
If we had more light possibly a quick search would discover the missing key.
And this caused me to remember the lantern that was suspended from a twig near by.