The moon outpaced the clouds again. He saw us at our
death-grips, and came on with a rush and a yell. He drove his dirk into
the nape of the man's neck and twisted the blade in its ghastly socket. A
sharp, sickening click--and the man dropped out of my fingers like a
stone. The moon went in again, and hid the evil thing from us.
"Pe she hurtit?" asked Donald anxiously.
"Not a scratch!" I replied.
"Tat's goot! Carry 'er up to the fire," he added to three or four men who
had run up on hearing his yell. "She's English and, maybe, she sall hae
fine pickins on 'er."
He stooped down, careless of a dead man as of a dead buck, and stropped
his dirk clean and dry on the man's breeches. Then the men, equally
indifferent, picked up the body and started off.
"D'ye ken wha the chiel is?" asked Donald, as we walked after them.
"A certain sergeant of dragoons, or one of his men," I answered.
"He winna fash ye ony more," said he. "Tat's a fine way of mine, when I
can get behint a mon. I've killt mony a stot like it, shoost t' keep in
the way of it." And he stabbed the air, twisted his wrist, and clicked
delightedly.
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