"Your doing, coward! Are you satisfied with your work?"
There was no answer, but the hurried murmur came over the edge of the
cliff again, followed by what sounded like angry commands, and then all
was silent for a few moments.
"Don't move," cried Ralph then. "I've sent for help. They've gone for
ropes. One will be here directly. I sent for it before. Can you hold
on?"
Mark made no reply, for no words would come. Hope had sprung up at the
possibility of escape, for life seemed then to be very sweet, but there
was a bitterness to dull the bright thought, for the lad felt that it
was the hated enemy of his house who was trying to help.
Then a dull feeling of apathy, as if he had been half stunned, came over
him as he hung there in a terribly cramped position, with his face
pressed against the wall.
And now, as if his hearing had become sharpened, the murmur of the
rushing river came up quite loudly, and the wind seemed to be gathering
force, while all this was, as it were, preparatory to his falling
headlong down. Then he must have lost his senses for some little time,
for the next thing he heard was a voice crying out, in tones full of
despair,--
"Too short, too short, Ram!"
"Ay, so it be. Good ten foot."
"Could I help him if you lowered me down?"
"Lower you down? Are you mad? I couldn't hold you; and you'd break
your neck."
Mark heard every word now, for his senses had suddenly recovered their
tone and something more.
Then what seemed to be another long space of time elapsed, and Ralph
shouted to him,--
"This rope is too short, but there'll be another here soon."
Mark could make no reply, and he hung there, listening to the murmur of
voices once more. Then the rush of the river sounded like the distant
boom of thunder. There was a loud _cizz_, _cizz_, going on somewhere on
the cliff face from a cricket, and the birds were singing more loudly
than he ever remembered to have heard them before.
Once more his senses must have left him and come back, for he heard the
voice above louder than ever, followed by Ralph shouting,--
"Can you tie the rope round you?"
Mark could not answer for some little time; then his lips parted, and he
gasped out the one word,--
"No."
A sharp rustling followed, as of a rope being rapidly drawn up. Then it
was lowered again; and as Mark strained his eyes round into the left
corners to get a glimpse, he saw a loop swinging to and fro, and it
struck him again and again; but those who lowered it, in the hope of
noosing the lad and drawing him up, soon found that the bush and the
sufferer's position precluded this.
"Can you push your arms through the loop, and hang on?" cried Ralph now.
"No," was the discouraging reply, for Mark fully realised the fact that
if he loosened his desperate hold for a moment he must fall.
"Haul up!" shouted Ralph. "Quick!"
The rope rattled and scraped again; and then, as Mark hung there,
half-insensible, he heard what sounded like quarrelling.
"You shan't go, Master Ralph. Who's to meet Sir Morton if you get a
fall trying to save a thing like that?"
Even in his half-insensible state Mark felt a quiver run through him;
and then he lay listening again, as if to hear what was taking place
about some one else.
"Silence!" came to his ear. "How dare you, sir! Now, all of you lower
me down."
There was a rustling and scraping directly after, which seemed to last a
long time, before something brushed against the listener, and he
quivered, for he felt that he was going. Then there was a panting
noise, which came up, as it were, out of the darkness, and he was
clutched tightly, hot breath came upon his cheek, and a hoarse voice
yelled in his ear,--
"Got him! Haul up steadily!" and directly after, the voice became a
whisper, which said,--
"Pray God the rope may not break."
Mark was conscious now of being scraped against the rock, and brushed by
twigs, for what seemed to be a very long time, before he was roughly
seized by more hands, and dragged heavily over the cliff edge, to be
dropped upon the short grass, as a voice he had heard before cried
harshly,--
"You've done it now, Master Ralph, and got your wolf cub after all."
"Yes," panted Ralph hoarsely, as Mark felt as if a cloud had suddenly
rolled away from his sight, and he saw clearly that half-a-dozen men
were surrounding him, and Ralph Darley, his greatest enemy, was kneeling
at his side, saying softly,--
"Yes, I've got the wolf cub after all;" and then the two lads' eyes met,
and gazed deeply into each other's in a curious stare.
That stare had the same effect on both lads--that of making them feel
uncomfortable.
Mark Eden, as he recovered from the shock of being so near a terrible
ending to his young life, felt that, surrounded as he was by enemies, he
ought to spring to his feet, draw his sword, and defend himself to the
last; while Ralph Darley knew that, according to all old family
traditions, he ought to order his men to seize a hand and foot each,
give his young enemy two or three swings, and launch him headlong off
the mighty cliff, and then stand and laugh at the capers he would cut in
his fall.
For people had been very savage in their revenges out in that wild part
of England, shut away from the civilisation of the time by moor and
mountain. Ralph knew, too, that though they were better then than in
the early days of the Wars of the Roses, they were still brutal enough,
and that he would gain the applause and respect of his men by giving
them the order. But Mark Eden had not drawn his sword to begin cutting
and thrusting; and instead of leaving the lad to hang till he fell, he,
Ralph Darley, had, in opposition to his father's men, risked his own
life to save that of his enemy--going down over a hundred feet, swinging
at the end of a couple of ropes badly tied together.
"Seems very stupid," the two lads thought.
"What does he mean by coming here, and getting into such a horrible
position--an idiot!" said Ralph to himself.
"How dare he, an insolent Darley, come down by a rope and save my life!"
said Mark to himself.
Then there was an awkward pause, with the two lads scowling, and
avoiding each other's gaze, and the men nudging one another, and winking
knowingly. Nick Garth whispering behind his hand to Ram Jennings, that
the young cocks would set up their hackles directly, whip out their
spurs, and there would be a fight; and, in expectation of this, the men,
six in number, now spread themselves into an arc, whose chord was the
edge of the cliff, thus enclosing the pair so as to check any design on
the part of the enemy to make a rush and escape.
Mark, who did not feel so breathless and numb now, sat up on the grass,
and resumed his old role of ignoring his enemies, putting his hands
behind him, to feel for the ravens hung from his sword-belt, taking them
out from their awkward position, to find that they were limp and
literally crushed. The reason for this was that when Ralph, as he
swung, seized him, he had to do this from behind, clasping him round the
chest, just under the arms, and then, as the rope was hauled, flinging
his legs about him to help to hold, with the consequence that they
formed a sort of sandwich, he and Mark being the slices of bread, and
the young ravens the meat.
"Hah!" said Mark softly, as if to himself; "you two will never dig out
any young lambs' eyes. Feed the fishes instead;" and, rising to his
feet, he untied his kerchief from about the dead birds' legs, and gave
each a swing, sending it on its first and last flight, out from the
cliff edge, away into the gulf.
"Now's your time, Master Ralph," whispered Nick, "Whip out your sword,
and show him how you can fight."
Ralph turned upon the man with an angry glance, and Nick shrank back
into his old position with a sheepish grin, which, in conjunction with
his cross eyes, did not improve his personal appearance.
Without so much as glancing at his enemies, Mark now took off his cap
and smiled, for the egg he had so carefully placed in the lining was
intact.
"Well done!" he said aloud. "That's for Master Rayburn at the cottage.
Here, one of you fellows, take that to him, and say I sent it. I dare
say he'll give you a coin for your trouble."
Ram Jennings made an awkward shoot forward, and seized the egg.
"Don't break it, clumsy," cried Mark; and then with a quick motion, he
threw his cap on the grass, took a step or two back toward the edge of
the cliff, and, quick as lightning, drew his sword.
"There," he cried, with a scornful look at Ralph; "seven of you to one.
Come on."
A low growl from the men greeted this display, but Ralph did not stir,
and Mark stood for a moment or two _en garde_. Then with a bitter laugh
he continued: "I suppose I must surrender. You don't draw. Take my
sword. My arm's wrenched, and I can't use it."
As he spoke he threw his sword at Ralph's feet; his enemy picked it up
by the slight blade, and the men closed in.
This movement sent a flash of anger from their young master's eyes.
"Back," he cried hoarsely. Then taking a step or two toward Mark, and
still holding the sword by the blade, he presented the hilt to his
enemy. "Take your sword, sir," he said haughtily. "The Darleys are
gentlemen, not cowards, to take advantage of one who is down. That is
the nearest way back to Black Tor," he continued, pointing.
For a few moments Mark stood gazing at his enemy, with his face flushing
to his temples; then turning haggard and pale, as a flood of mingled
sensations rushed through him; shame, mortification, pride, anger
against self, seemed to choke all utterance, and he could not even stir.
He felt that he wanted to be brave and manly, and apologise for his
words--to thank the gallant lad before him for saving his life--to make
him see that he was a gentleman--to strike him and make him fight--to do
something brave--despicable--to do he did not know what--before he
accepted this permission to go, but he could for the moment do nothing--
say nothing.
At last, with a hoarse gasp, he literally snatched at the sword, and
glared at his enemy with a menacing look, as if he were about to thrust
at him; and Ralph's hand darted to his own hilt, but with an angry
gesture, he let it fall, and stood firm.
Then a cry, mingled of rage and shame, escaped from Mark; and he thrust
his sword back into its sheath, and pushing Nick aside, as the man stood
in his way, he hurried down the hill.
"Yah-h-ah!" growled Nick savagely, "you aren't going to let him off like
that, master?"
Mark heard the words, and turned round.
"How dare you speak to me like that!" cried Ralph, glad of some one on
whom to vent the anger he felt.
"Because Sir Morton, if he'd been here, would have had that young Eden
tied neck and heels, and pitched into one of the cells. Because you're
a coward, sir. There!"
"Ah-h-ah!" growled the other men in chorus, as they glared at the lad.
"Then take a coward's blow," cried Ralph; and he struck the man with all
his might across the face, using the back of his hand.
There was another growl from the men, but no one spoke, and Mark Eden
turned again, and strode down the hill, while the men untied and coiled
up the ropes, and slowly followed their young master down the slope, and
then up once more toward the Castle, Nick Garth shaking his head a good
deal, and looking puzzled, and a great deal interested in the blood
which he kept smudging off, first with one hand, and then with the
other, from his face.
"Here," he cried at last, as Ralph disappeared through the gateway,
"what's best to stop this here? I can't go with it all tied up."
"Bucket o' water from the well," said Ram Jennings, grinning. "Say,
Nick, he aren't such a coward, arter all."
"No," growled Nick, after a double wipe; "and, for such a little 'un, he
can hit hard."