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

The two lads stood there motionless for a time, wondering what the lantern-bearer could be doing, for he evidently had no suspicion of his being watched. Then as they saw that in place of gleaming over the water, the lantern was once more in motion, they crouched down, with their eyes alone over the edge of the clean-cut chasm, feeling that whoever it was must pass just beneath them, when they would be able to see which way he went, and so gain a clue to the robbers’ hold.

The light came nearer, and it was plain that whoever bore it was coming very slowly, but they grasped the reason directly, for he was passing over a flooring of slippery crystals, and as he came on they could hear him breathing hard.

As they had anticipated, he came very close beneath them, and Mark felt that if he looked up they would be seen. But he whom they watched walked stooping, and letting the light fall upon the glittering ascending floor, so that at last he was not six feet below them, and Mark said in a quick whisper: “Sir Morton!”

“Great Heavens!” came back in company with a sharp crash, as of an earthenware pitcher falling in shivers upon the rocky floor.

“Hush!”

“Who is it?”

“Friends,” whispered Mark.

“Thank Heaven! At last—at last,” came up, with a piteous groan, and they heard a heavy fall.

“Quick, Dummy,” whispered Mark. “We must go down to him.”

“Listen first,” said the boy: “p’r’aps some one heard.”

But as he spoke there was the sound of a hoarse laugh from a long distance off, and Dummy whispered: “Didn’t hear. Been to fetch water, and broke the pitcher. I say, Master Mark, wasn’t I right?”

Mark made no reply, for he was lowering himself down over the edge, and directly after he dropped on to the crystals below.

“Show the light, Dummy,” he whispered, and the boy lay face downward and swung the lantern down as far as he could reach.

As Mark touched the fallen man’s hand he began to recover consciousness.

“Not a dream—not a dream,” he murmured. “Whoever you are, have you come to help?”

“Yes; but hush! Purlrose and his men—are they near?”

“Too far to hear us speak; but hide your lights. Now tell me, are you one of those who attacked these wretches?”

“Yes; and we have reached you at last.”

“Ah!” sighed the prisoner. “It was time—it was time. I don’t know your voice; I could not see your face; but if you know, tell me, for mercy’s sake—my poor boy—was he killed?”

“No. Badly wounded, but alive, and he will live.”

Mark heard the prostrate man muttering, and felt the hand he grasped trembling violently.

“It puts life into me,” he whispered, “when I was nearly spent. Tell me—pray tell me—where is my boy! Not a prisoner?”

“No: safe with us, at the Black Tor.”

“Safe—at the Black Tor!” faltered Sir Morton. “Then you are an Eden?”

“Of course: and my father is close by here with a dozen stout men to punish these villains and save you, and—you do not say anything about your child.”

There was no reply, and Mark pressed the hand he held, to find that there was no response, and that it was turning wet and cold, for the unfortunate prisoner had been unable to bear the tidings, and had swooned away.

“Go back,” whispered Mark, “and tell my father whom we have found.”

“Leave the light?” said the boy.

“No, take it. Tell him all you have heard.”

The light glided away, and the next minute a faint sigh told that Sir Morton was regaining his senses, his complete recovery thereof being announced by a trembling pressure of the hand.

“Weak,” he whispered. “I was badly wounded. So Heaven has sent my greatest enemy to save us.”

“Us?” cried Mark excitedly. “Then Ralph Darley’s sister is safe.”

“Will be, I pray,” said Sir Morton feebly. “I, her father, can do no more.”

Sir Edward came up, in company with Dan Rugg and five men, approaching cautiously with one lantern; and they were in the act of descending to Mark and the prisoner when a hoarse bullying voice was heard from a distance, the words echoing and reverberating as along a vaulted passage.

“Now then, back to your den, old fool. Don’t be a week fetching that water.”

“I—I am going back,” cried Sir Morton, and then in a whisper—“the light—the light. I will soon return.”

He caught at the lantern, and began to move off painfully, while his would-be rescuers stood watching till the light disappeared round a corner, and a minute later the same harsh voice was heard speaking fiercely. Then all was still.

“Hah!” whispered Sir Edward, “at last. Keep all lights covered, Rugg, and go and bring up the rest of the men.”

Dan grunted, and they heard his steps as they stood listening. Twice over there came the hoarse sound of laughter, but Sir Morton did not return, and Sir Edward in his impatience was about to order a movement forward, now that all his men were at hand, when from out of the black darkness, close by where Mark stood listening with every nerve upon the strain, the lad heard a slight rustling, then a faint panting sound as of hasty breathing, and a low voice whispered: “Is any one there? Please speak.”

“Yes, yes,” whispered Mark, and he stepped forward quickly with outstretching hands, which came in contact with one as cold as ice.

“Oh!” gasped its owner, as another hand felt for him and clung to him. “I know your voice, Mark Eden. I am Minnie Darley: pray, pray come and help my father; he is too weak to come back to you.”

The voice trailed off into a wail.

“Hush! Don’t, pray don’t cry,” whispered Mark. “Can you guide us to where your father is?”

“Yes; oh yes.”

“In the darkness?”

“Yes, I can find my way.”

“Can you lead us, my child, to where these ruffians are?” said Sir Edward, who had approached. “We must surprise and make them prisoners first.”

“Yes—no, you will kill them,” whispered the girl. “It is too treacherous and dreadful.”

“My child,” said Sir Edward gently, and he stretched his hand forward till he could touch the girl’s head, upon which he softly laid his hand; “I have a girl as young and fair as you, and Heaven forbid that she should ever be called upon to perform such an act. But think: it is to save your father’s life; to save you from the hands of these treacherous ruffians. You must be our guide.”

There was a dead silence for a few moments, and Sir Edward felt his hand taken and held to two soft lips.

“Yes,” came gently; “it is to save my poor father. He will die in this terrible place; and I must die too. You do not know, and they would easily kill you if you went without. Yes, I will guide you to where they are. I feel that I must.”