"
"Well, but I have an idea. You can march us into Harwich as your
prisoners. Take us into his Majesty's presence--that's all I ask,
and I don't care how it's done. You shall have our _parole_ if you
please."
The sergeant shook his head. "It's against my orders."
"Then we must try to pass you."
"Suffer me to point out that we are seven to two."
"Thank you. But this is an affair of conscience."
"Nevertheless--"
"Confound it, sir!" broke in the little hunchback. "You are here, it
seems, to frustrate our intentions; but I'm hanged if you shall
criticise them too. Guard, sirs, if you please!"
And whipping out their swords, these indomitable old gentlemen fell
with fury on their seven adversaries and engaged them.
The struggle, however, lasted but a minute. Six bayonets are not to
be charged with a couple of small-swords; and just as Captain Barker
was on the point of spitting himself like an over-hasty game chicken,
the sergeant raised his side-arm and dealt him a cut over the head.
Hat and wig broke the blow somewhat; but the little man dropped with
a moan and lay quite still in the road.
Hearing the sound, Captain Jemmy turned, dropped his sword, and ran
to lift his friend. The stroke had stunned him, and a trickle of
blood ran from a slight scalp-wound and mingled with the dust.
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