The Black Tor: A Tale of the Reign of James the First by George Manville Fenn (classic romance novels .TXT) 📕

by the rest of his gang, and standing shouting and waving his hands furiously.

The position now was this: Two men were running, with the lads some five-and-twenty yards behind, and gaining on them fast. Two men were fifty yards away, to right and left; and two more were right behind, sixty or seventy yards, in full pursuit.

“Forward!” shouted Mark. “No mercy, Darley; run your fellow through, and then turn and spit that fellow on your right.”

The two men in front heard the words, and redoubled their efforts, but they were heavy, middle-aged scoundrels, and plodded clumsily over the stone-strewed ground; while, forgetting their wounds in the excitement, Mark and Ralph bounded along, leaping blocks that stood in their way, and gaining so fast upon their flying enemies, that in a few minutes they were close up: and the retreating pair, in response to the yells of their companions, and in despair, turned at bay, when Mark, who was first, leaped straight at his man, turning the fellow’s rusty sword aside, and came upon the lower part of his chest with his knees, like a stone from a catapult.

Down went the man, with his sword flying out of his hand, and Mark nearly fell a couple of yards beyond him, but, active as a fallow deer, he saved himself by a couple of leaps, as his feet touched the ground; and he turned, to see Ralph’s man down and motionless, as his companion leaped to his side, and faced round to meet the next two, who, urged on by the shouts from the hill, charged at them, carried on by their legs, almost involuntarily, their spirit having little to do with it.

The next minute swords were clashing, there were a few quick parries and thrusts, and one man dropped his weapon, as Ralph’s sword passed through his shoulder, almost simultaneously with a sharp clang, caused by the shell of Mark’s weapon striking against that of his adversary, whose blade broke short off at the hilt. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, the lad struck sidewise at the fellow with his fist, catching him in the ear, and he staggered sidewise, hors de combat.

“Now for the others,” cried Ralph wildly, his blood up, and ready for anything; and they were about to dash at them, when, to their utter astonishment, the last two turned and ran up the slope toward their captain and the rest of the party, who were coming to their aid.

“No, no, stop, stop!” yelled Mark, half choking the while with a hoarse hysterical laugh. “Oh, what a game! Here, look; that fellow’s getting his sword.”

Without another word, the pair dashed at the disarmed man, who had risen and picked up his weapon, but he turned and fled.

“Who’d have thought of that?” cried Mark wildly. “Shall we turn and attack the others as they come on?”

“No,” said Ralph, recovering his coolness; “let’s trot on now. It’s madness to try it again.”

“Well, I suppose it would be pushing it too far. They can’t say we’re cowards if we retreat now.”

“No; but we can say they are,” cried Ralph. “Why, what a set of curs, to be beaten by us.”

“Yes, and they can’t fight a bit. I could parry their thrusts with a stick. But here; I can’t lose my pony. Where is he?”

“And I can’t lose my rod and creel,” cried Ralph. “There’s your pony yonder ahead.”

“And your fish are right back there. I’ll come with you to fetch them.”

“No, no; let them have ’em. We must retreat now. Two, four, six, eight-nine of them now; and I don’t think those fellows who are down are much hurt. Come along.”

For Captain Purlrose was now descending the slope, and his men were approaching menacingly, spurred on by a shower of oaths, threats, and abuse from their leader.

“Well, I suppose we must; but my blood’s up now,” said Mark, “and I hate running from such a set of curs.”

“So do I,” said Ralph; “it’s like being beaten, when we won. I say, were you hurt?”

“Only where you jobbed that sword of yours into my leg. Phew! it’s getting stiffer every moment. I shan’t be able to walk directly. Were you?”

“What, hurt? No, only where you scratched me.”

“It was pretty deep, then, for your sleeve’s soaked. Here, let me tie my handkerchief round it.”

“No, no,” said Ralph; “they’ll overtake us. Let’s make a run for it now.”

“Shall we?” said Mark unwillingly.

“Yes, we must. I can’t use my arm any more.”

“Well, I don’t think I can run much farther.”

“You must,” cried Ralph, sharply as he looked over his shoulder. “We’re not fit to fight.”

He thrust his sound arm through Mark’s, and they ran on pretty swiftly for a hundred yards or so, with the enemy in full pursuit, and then Mark stopped suddenly.

“Can’t go—any farther,” he said. “My leg’s awful.”

Ralph looked round, to find that the men had given up the pursuit, and were going back.

“Can we catch your pony?” he said.

“I think so. He’s grazing yonder.”

“Would he let me catch him?”

“No,” said Mark. “He’d be off directly. There, I think I can hobble on now for a bit. What! are they coming again?”

“No; only watching us,” said Ralph rather faintly. “Would you mind tying that tightly round my arm?”

For answer, Mark seized the handkerchief Ralph held out, and knotted it last round his companion’s arm.

“Now let me do something to your leg.”

“No; it doesn’t bleed now,” said Mark. “Let’s get on. If they see us crippled, they’ll come on again, and if they do I’m good for nothing. It doesn’t bleed; it only feels of no use. There, let’s get on. Are they watching us?”

“No, I think not. It’s getting so dark there. I say; I can see they’re lifting one of the men to carry him.”

“Wish some one would carry me,” groaned Mark.

“I don’t think I can,” said Ralph. “Perhaps I could, though, if you could hold on.”

“Bah!” cried Mark sharply. “Likely. Come on, and I’ll coax that beast of a pony. If I can only get hold of him, I’ll make him carry us both.”

They pressed on in silence, Mark using his sword as a walking-stick with one hand, and compelled to accept his enemy’s arm, till they came up to where the cob was grazing.

It let them come close up before raising its head, and then, after contemplating them for a bit, twitching his ears, as Mark uttered a series of blandishments, and ended by tossing its head, and spinning round, as upon a pivot, to trot off. It failed in this, however, for Ralph thrust his foot through the trailing rein, and brought the animal up short.

“Well done!” cried Mark. “There, jump on, and then pull me across like a sack.”

“Nonsense! Get on yourself. I’ll help you.”

“I shan’t, it’s my pony. You’re wounded, so get on.”

“After you,” said Ralph, and, after a little more bandying of words, Mark felt so sick with pain that he had either to lie down on the earth or mount.

He did the latter, after several groans, for his leg was very stiff and painful.

“There’s a coward for you,” he said. “Now jump up behind.”

“There is no need,” said Ralph. “I can walk.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Never mind.—Get on with you.”

This last to the pony, who walked quietly along with his burden in the pleasant evening light.

For some minutes now neither of the lads spoke, being too much engrossed by pain and the strangeness of their position.

“I say,” said Mark at last, “you’d better come up to the Tor, and drop me, and I’ll lend you the pony to carry your wounded arm home.”

“No,” said Ralph quietly. “I shall come a bit farther, and then strike off. You can get safe home now.”

“Yes, I suppose so; but you ought to have the pony, or one of our men, to see you safe.”

“He’d finish me off,” said Ralph grimly, and Mark was silent.

“I say,” he said at last; “I shan’t say we fought.”

“Why?” asked Ralph, in surprise.

“Because it’s like bragging so, to talk of two fights. I shall say the robbers attacked us, and we beat them off; then they’ll get the credit of our wounds.”

“But it will not be true.”

“I shan’t say they wounded us,” replied Mark. “If my father likes to think they did it, I shall let him.”

“I shan’t,” said Ralph quietly. “I shall tell my father everything.”

“Well, I suppose it will be best,” said Mark. “But, I say, that fight doesn’t count, you know. We must begin again where we can’t be interrupted.”

“When your leg’s better.”

“Yes, and your arm’s all right.”

“Of course.”

“Queer thing being such enemies, Darley, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Ralph quietly.

“But I suppose it comes natural, though, to our families.”

“I have always thought so,” replied Ralph.

“I say, I’m glad you’re not a coward, though. They say that all the Darleys have been cowards.”

“Yes; and all the Edens too.”

“It’s a lie—an abominable lie,” cried Mark hotly. “Do you mean to say I’m a coward?”

“How could I, after the way you helped me to fight those ruffians this evening? I thought you very brave,” said Ralph gravely.

“Thank ye. That’s what I thought about you. But I think it’s a pity you are a Darley.”

“Don’t say that. I am very proud to be one, but I say—”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you think, instead of paying compliments to one another, we ought to go and get our wounds properly seen to?”

“Yes, it would be more sensible. You’ll turn off, and go round by the cliff?”

“Yes, where the path comes up from the river,” replied Ralph.

“And we’ll finish that fight as soon as ever we can,” said Mark.

“Very well. I suppose we must see who’s best man.”

“Of course.—Hallo! who’s this?”

A figure was dimly-seen coming up through the bushes, along the track just mentioned, and directly after, it became fully visible as Master Rayburn with his fish-creel on his back, and rod on shoulder; and they saw the old man stop short and cry:

“Shade of good Queen Bess! What’s the meaning of this?”