Aghast at the terrible gripe on his throat, and the touch of the cold pistol-barrel on his brow, the man let his hand drop, and would have sunk upon his knees only that Harrington upheld him.
“Mercy!” he gasped.
“Stand up,” said Harrington, releasing him.
The man stood up with shaking knees, trembling with terror.
“Go forward and take that negro from the cuddy,” ordered Harrington.
The man paused an instant, then went forward, followed by Harrington, and sprang for the ladder. But the long arm clutched him by the throat, and again the terrified wretch felt the pistol-barrel on his brow.
“Attempt that again and you die,” said Harrington. “Now take out the negro. Quick!”
Shaking with affright, the man stooped, opened the cuddy doors, and dragged out Antony, feet bound together, and arms lashed above the elbows to his side.
“Oh, Marster Harrington,” cried the delighted fugitive; “oh, I knowed you was comin’ right along. Never guv it up, Marster Harrington.”
“Silence, Antony,” said his savior. “Take your knife and cut those cords,” he added, to the other.