"I arrest you, Richard Wilmot, for attempting to rescue my prisoner," continued Dobbs. "Shove the darbies on t'other one, Bill, and do you, Seth, fetch the cart. We'll take these young devils to Dover jail this very night. Look sharp, both on ye."
Fogg went off on his errand with evident reluctance, and Herd, after fumbling in his pockets, declared that he must have left the handcuffs at home. Harry and I were so taken aback at the unexpected appearance of Dobbs and his companions that we stood stock-still, offering neither resistance nor remonstrance; but now Septimus Blagg came cringing up to me and, with well-feigned emotion, said: "Richard! Richard! has it come to this? Alas! what will my poor deluded uncle say?"
The sound of his hated voice roused me in a moment. Looking him fair in the face, I saw that his expression was one of triumph rather than regret. Then a sudden thought flashed across my mind—I had been betrayed by that fawning hypocrite!
"You hound!" I shouted in a fury. "You have set a trap for me—I'll swear it!"
"I reckon ye're not far wrong, Master Dick," muttered William Herd, casting an angry glance at the now trembling curate. "A darned dirty job it be!"
The man's remark, and my tutor's confusion, convinced me I had hit the right nail on the head—that Dodds and Septimus had deliberately planned to tempt me to rescue Harry Symes, there could be no reasonable doubt—and losing all control of my temper, and utterly regardless of the consequences, I rushed at Septimus Blagg and knocked him fairly off his legs. In falling his head came in violent contact with the half-open door, and he rolled over stunned and bleeding profusely.
"The young vill'n's killed the parson!" cried Dobbs, seizing me by the collar. "Help! Murder! Help!"
Snatching up a stool—the only piece of furniture in the cage—Harry Symes flew to my aid, and with a swashing blow stretched Dobbs senseless on the floor.
"Ecod! ye've done for the pair of 'em, I do believe," said Herd in scared tones, as he stooped to examine Dobbs's prostrate form. "Ye shouldn't have hit so mortal hard, lad; though it serves the rascal right."
