“To ’state of Norris—on de main, Marster.”
“Hand me that pistol from your belt.”
Still under the power of the masterful man, the negro handed it over. Scarcely had McArthur taken it, however, when the spell was broken.
“Looky ’ere, stan’ off dar. I’se one of de gyards. I b’longs to Mr. Linkum an’ myself, now. Stan’ off an’ gimme dat musket,” he quavered, trying to re-assume his self-confidence.
Then he shivered as he felt the cold steel against his temple.
“Don’t speak again, or I’ll kill you instantly.”
Terrified, the negro fell to wringing his hands, his teeth chattering convulsively.
“Take off those clothes,” ordered Ervin, “cap, trousers, coat.”
While this was being done, a dark gray form loomed up by his side out of the fog.
“You got him? I’ll help you.”