Even as I spoke, there came a great commotion from the tree, as of one struggling desperately; and then a frantic, gurgling cry broke out:
"Help! caught by neck! Strangling. Help!"
"'Twould seem as though swift justice had him," said my father. "Come, let us see," he added, moving forward.
"Nay, have a care," said I. "I trust him not. He is as crafty as Old Nick. To go beneath the tree might mean a well-aimed bullet."
"Nathless, we cannot see the villain hang. What's to be done? Is he high up, think you?"
"Yes, near the top; or so at least he was."
"Ah, then, I have it. We must get a ladder. There is that long one hanging on the garden wall. The very thing. Come, Michael, let us fetch it. Hark! he is surely strangling," he added, as the cries grew still more guttural and frantic. "Come, quickly!"
So off we sped, and having got the ladder, and a brace of loaded pistols, returned full quickly to the spot. But there were no cries now; leaves lay thick beneath the oak tree, but its erstwhile shaking branches were quite still, and not a sound was to be heard.
"Belike enough the miserable wretch is dead by now," remarked my father, as we laid the ladder down and listened for a while. And with that he would have gone straight forward to the tree; but my knowledge of the "miserable wretch's" ways enjoined greater caution.
"Stay! Let us try this first," I said.