He caught her hand and darted from the spot, almost directly in the faces of the British, some of whom were in mid-stream above the Cone.
A few minutes sufficed to bring them to the wounded Briton, and the spy’s boat.
“Major Runnion!”
The exclamation bubbled involuntarily to Effie’s lips.
The major groaned, and turned his face from the girl he had grossly insulted—deeply wronged.
“Perhaps it would serve you right to leave you here,” said Mark Morgan, looking down upon the major. “You’re a murderer, and deserve the gallows; but, I’m not the man to leave a fellow-creature to die without a chance for his life. Were they to find you here, they’d kill you without a moment’s prayer, and I doubt you’re not prepared to settle with the powers above. We’ll take you with us, and if you recover, which, to be plain, I think doubtful, I’ll turn you over to Mad Anthony, and you can guess what he’ll do with you.”
“Take me with you,” groaned Runnion. “Do not let me fall into their hands. When I recover I’ll meet them, and fight them fair.”
Glancing at Effie, the spy raised the British soldier in his arms, and laid him in the bottom of the boat.
The Briton smiled his gratitude.
“Get in, girl.”