Commodore Junk. Fenn George Manville

had been descending into a narrow pass where the road had been cut down in the hill side, leaving a high, well-wooded bank on either hand, and here it was far more dark than out in the open, and the mare, after walking steadily on for some distance with her well-shod hoofs clinking upon the loose stones, suddenly shied, stopped short, and snorted.

      “What’s the matter with you, stupid? Can’t you stand straight?” cried the captain, striking the beast angrily with his heels. “Go on.”

      The horse, however, backed and swerved from side to side, making as if to turn sharply and gallop back to Dartmouth; but just at that moment there was a rustling sound heard overhead, where the rough bushes fringed the bank, and directly after a rush and the sound of someone leaping down into the lane between the captain and the town.

      This had the effect of startling the horse more and more, but instead of making now for the way by which they had come, it willingly obeyed the touch of the rider’s spur, and continued its journey for half a dozen yards. Then it stopped short once again, for a dark figure leaped down into the lane just in front, and the captain found himself hemmed in.

      And now, for the first time; he began to feel sobered as he took in the position. He had been attacked by highwaymen without a doubt, and unless he chose to do battle for his watch and money his only chance of escape was to force his horse to mount the precipitous side of the lane.

      Without a moment’s hesitation he dragged at the off rein, drove the spurs into the beast’s flanks, and forced her to the leap; but it was poorly responded to. The half leap resulted in the mare gaining a footing a few feet up, and then scrambling back into the lane as the captain’s two assailants closed in.

      “Stand back, you scoundrels!” roared the captain. “Curse you! I’ll blow your brains out.”

      A mocking laugh was the response, and as he dragged at the holster a smart blow from a cudgel fell upon his hand, making him utter a yell of pain. The next moment one of the men had leaped up behind him and clasped his arms to his side, and in the struggle which ensued both came down off the horse, which uttered a loud snort of fear and dashed off at a gallop down the hill for home, while, nerved to action now by his position and stung by the blows he had received from his assailant, the captain wrested himself free and dragged his sword from its sheath.

      He had hardly raised it in the air when a tremendous blow fell upon the blade close to the hilt, the sword snapped in two, and the captain was defenceless.

      This mishap took all the spirit-born courage out of him, and he threw down the broken weapon.

      “I give in,” he cried, backing away to the side of the lane and facing the two dimly-seen figures in the darkness; “what do you want?”

      One of the men burst into a hoarse laugh.

      “I’ve hardly any money,” cried the captain; “a guinea or two. If I give you that will you go?”

      “Curse your money, you cowardly hound!” cried the second man.

      “How dare you, dog!” cried the captain. “Do you know who I am?”

      “James Armstrong,” said the same speaker. “Now, lad, quick!”

      “You shall – ”

      The captain’s words turned into a yell of agony as he received a violent blow from a stick across one arm, numbing it, and before its echo rose from the steep slope of the hill a second and a third blow fell, which were followed by a shower, the unfortunate man yelling, beseeching, and shrieking with agony and fear. He dropped upon his knees and begged piteously for mercy; but his tormentors laughed, and seized the opportunity he offered to apply their blows more satisfactorily. Back, arms, legs, all in turn, were belaboured as two men beat a carpet, till the victim’s cries grew hoarse, then faint, and finally ceased, and he lay in the trampled road, crushed almost to a mummy, and unable to stir hand or foot; and then, and then only, did his assailants cease.

      “Ain’t killed him, have we, Abel, lad?” said the bigger of the two men.

      “Killed? No. We never touched his head. It would take a deal to kill a thing like him. Captain!” he said, mockingly. “What a cowardly whelp to command men!”

      “What shall we do now?” whispered the bigger man.

      “Do! I’m going to make my mark upon him, and then go home.”

      “Well, you have, lad.”

      “Ay, with a stick, but I’m going to do it with my knife;” and, as he spoke, the lesser of the two men drew his knife from its dagger-like sheath.

      “No, no, don’t do that. Give him a good ’un on the head. No knife.”

      “Yes, knife,” said the lesser of the two. “He’s had no mercy, and I’ll have none. He’s stunned, and won’t feel it.”

      “Don’t do that, lad,” whimpered the bigger man.

      “Ay, but I will,” said the other, hoarsely; and, dropping on his knees, he seized the prostrate man by the ear, when the trembling wretch uttered a shriek of agony, making his assailants start away.

      “Did you do it, lad?”

      “Yes; I done it. I’m satisfied now. Let’s go.”

      “And leave him there?”

      “Why not? What mercy did he show? He was only shamming. Let him call for help now till someone comes.”

      The bigger man uttered a grunt and followed his companion as he mounted the steep side of the lane, while, faint, exhausted, and bleeding now, Captain James Armstrong sank back and fainted away.

      Chapter Six

      Brought to Book

      “You dare not deny it,” cried Mary Dell, furiously, as she stood in the doorway of the cottage, facing her brother and Bart Wrigley, who attempted to escape, but were prevented by her barring the way of exit.

      Neither spoke, but they stood looking sullen and frowning like a couple of detected schoolboys.

      “No,” she continued, “you dare not deny it. You cowards – lying in wait for an unarmed man!”

      “Why, he’d got a sword and pistols,” cried Bart.

      “There!” shrieked Mary, triumphantly; “you have betrayed yourself, Bart. Now perhaps my brave brother will confess that he lay in wait in the dark for an unarmed man, and helped to beat him nearly to death.”

      “You’re a nice fellow to trust, Bart,” said Abel, looking at his companion. “Betrayed yourself directly.”

      “Couldn’t help it,” grumbled Bart. “She’s so sharp upon a man.”

      “You cowards!” cried Mary again.

      “Well, I don’t know about being cowards,” said Abel, sullenly. “He was mounted and had his weapons, and we had only two sticks.”

      “Then you confess it was you? Oh! what a villain to have for a brother!”

      “Here, don’t go on like that,” cried Abel. “See how he has served you.”

      “What’s that to you?” cried Mary, fiercely. “If he jilted me and I forgive him, how dare you interfere?”

      “Phew!” whistled Bart to himself. “What a way she has!”

      “Why, any one would think you cared for him, Polly,” said Abel, staring, while Bart whistled softly again, and wiped the heavy dew from his forehead.

      “Care for him! – I hate him!” cried Mary, passionately: “but do you think I wanted my own brother to go and take counsel with his big vagabond companion – ”

      “Phew!” whistled Bart again, softly, as he perspired now profusely, and wiped his forehead with his fur cap.

      “And then go and beat one of the King’s officers? But you’ll both suffer for it. The constables will be here for you, and you’ll both be punished.”

      “Not likely