So I crept back, got a pistol, and stood to the left of the
window.
I waited till his body darkened the room and then took a furtive look at
him. It was no village lover climbing up at peep of dawn to greet his
lass. It was one of Brocton's dragoons, one of the five who had been at
the Hanyards.
In a twink I shot him. Without a word, he slithered down the tiles,
leaving a mush of blood-red snow. His right leg slipped aslant between two
rungs of the ladder, and his body, checked in its fall, swung round and
dangled over the eaves.
In the room was a large oaken clothes chest. I dragged it to the light,
tilted it on end, and jammed it into the gable of the window, which,
luckily, it fitted completely, and so blocked any further attack from the
roof. Snatching up my weapons, I tumbled down the ladder, only to hear the
heavy tramping of feet upstairs. Standing by Margaret's door, I waited
until the head and shoulders of the first man came in sight. He carried a
lantern, and its yellow rays lit up for me the ugly face of the sergeant
of dragoons. I fired my second pistol at him, crashing the lantern to
pieces.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252