"Aye, aye, you'm right, zur. Brandy it be--best French, too."
The cloud of black bewilderment was passing--the voice was now familiar. Glancing up I met the keen grey eyes of Daniel Ratlaw (or Rat as he was called), the greatest thorn in Dassell's side, because he was the king of cargo runners.
"Smuggled?" said I.
"Right agen," he nodded, with a wink. "Smuggled sure enough it were, but mebbe none the worse for that."
"Nay, surely, Rat," I murmured; then sat silent for a time, striving to collect my scattered thoughts, which so far had remained a wild unruly throng. The moon, which I had last seen shooting down the sky with Ammon's head for company, now shone brightly; and what was that which flashed its light back from the grass? My sword! When I saw that, the past rushed on me pell-mell. The poisoned arrow! Surely it was time that death was stealing over me! The throbbing of my head--was that not part of it?
I gave a shuddering downward glance towards my breast. The murderous little shaft was hanging from my coat. Ratlaw's eyes had followed mine and seen it also.
"Whoy, what be that?" says he, and tried to seize it, but I dashed his hand away.
"Have a care!" I cried, "'tis poisoned!"
And with that I plucked the arrow out and cast it clear into the bushes at my back.
"Poisoned!" gasped Dan, and very nearly let me drop.