"But you mustn't use it, my girl. If we could frighten them somehow.

Come on, and let's try. I know--we'll all go close up and shout."

"They won't mind that," said Polly; but we went on in the darkness so quickly and quietly, that we were soon alongside a black plantation of Scotch fir-trees, in time to hear two more shots, and the heavy thuds of falling bodies.

"Now, are you ready?" whispered Lomax.

"Yes," we said, but at that moment a figure darted by us, and entered the black wood.

"One of them," said Lomax. "Let's holloa, all the same."

But, before we had drawn breath for the shout, there was a yell, a dull sound as of a stick striking a gun-barrel, then a crashing of the lower branches, cries, blows, and a loud voice calling to the poachers to give in.

"Why, it's father got back," cried Polly Hopley. "Oh, Mr Lomax, go and help, or they'll kill him!"

The old sergeant's mettle was roused, and he dashed into the wood, while, with every pulse throbbing with excitement, we boys followed the direction taken, finding that the poachers were evidently retreating, from the sounds growing farther away.

Then all at once there was the sharp report of a gun, followed by a wild shriek.

"It's father! They've shot him!" cried Polly, who, unknown to us, was close behind. "Run, run!"

We pressed on. It was impossible to run in the darkness, and as we hurried along, a voice cried just in front,--

"You've shot my mate. Take that!"

At almost the same time came a sharp rap, a loud report, and then a heavy, dull blow.

"Father, father!" shrieked Polly, as we heard the rustling and breaking of branches, evidently caused by men in full retreat.

"All right, my la.s.s. Quick: go back to the lodge for a lantern. Man shot."

She turned and ran back, while we kept on, and reached an opening in the wood, where we made out, dimly, two tall figures, and my blood turned cold at a piteous moaning from somewhere on the ground.

"Who's there?" cried Bob Hopley's voice.

"Only us, Bob," I said. "Are you hurt?"

"Nay, lad, not a bit. I should ha' been, though, if Mr Lomax hadn't knocked up the barrel with his stick and then downed the man."

"You've murdered my mate," came from close by our feet. "You've shot him."

"First time I ever did shoot anything without a gun," said the keeper.

"One of you hit him, or he did it himself."

"You shot him--you murdered him," cried the man who had spoken, struggling to his knees, and then crouching among the pine needles, holding his head with his hands as if it were broken, and rocking himself to and fro.

"Oh, if that's it," said Bob Hopley, "I must have witnesses. Mr Lomax, I've just come from Hastings. I heard the shooting o' my fezzans, and I come on with this stick. You see I've no gun, and you, too, young gents?"

"Yah! you shot him," groaned the man, who was evidently in great pain; "and then you knocked me down with the bar'l o' the gun."

"Oh, come, that won't do, lad," cried Lomax; "that was a cut from the left. I gave you that, my lad, to keep you from shooting me."

"Pair o' big cowards, that's what you are."

"Cowards, eh?" cried Lomax. "Not much o' that, Hopley. Two men with sticks against a gang of you fellows with guns. How many were you?"

"Nine on us," groaned the man. "Oh, my yed, my yed!"

"Nine of you to two honest men. Serve you right. Should have stopped at home and earned an honest living, not come stealing game."

"What!" cried the man fiercely; "'taren't stealing; they're wild birds, and as much our'n as his'n."

"You're a donkey," said Lomax. "Why, there'd be no pheasants if they weren't reared like chickens."

"That's so," said Hopley.--"Why don't that gal bring a light?"

"Here she comes," cried Mercer, for he caught sight of the dim glow of the horn lantern among the trees, and as it came nearer, Bob Hopley said,--

"Hadn't you young gents better get back to bed? this here aren't no place for you."

"No, no, don't send us away, Bob," I said; "we want to see."

"Well, you will be witnesses," he growled, and the next minute he took the lantern from Polly, who was panting with excitement.

"Oh, father dear," she cried, "are you hurt?"

"Not a bit, my la.s.s," he cried, stooping quickly and kissing her. "Will you stay or go? It's ugly."

"Stay, father."

"Right, my la.s.s. Now, Mr Lomax, what about this chap you downed," he continued, holding the lantern so that the light fell upon the kneeling man, whose forehead was bleeding freely. "You give it him and no mistake," he chuckled. "Here, tie this hankychy round your head, and don't bellow there like a great calf. Master Burr junior, pick up and take charge of that gun, will you? Stop! let's see if she's loaded.

No. All right. I forgot. She went off herself, I suppose," he added grimly, "when he tried to shoot Mr Lomax or me."

"I didn't," whimpered the man.

"There, don't make wuss on it by telling lies, you skulking hound,"

cried Bob, who was as fierce now as could be. "Mr Lomax, will you see as he don't get away?"

"He'd better try to," said the old sergeant, making his stick whizz through the air.

"Now, where's t'other?" said Hopley. "Mind, keep back, you lads. He's got a gun too, and he's hurt, and may be savage."

"Oh, take care, father!" cried Polly. "Let me go first--he wouldn't shoot a woman."

"Want to make me ashamed of myself and get hiding behind a gal's petticutt!" cried Bob. "G'long with you."

He strode forward with the lantern for a few yards, and then held it down over the spot from which a low groaning had come, but which had ceased for some minutes now.

It was very horrible, but the weird scene beneath those heavy boughs, with the keeper's burly form thrown up by the yellow glow of the lantern and the shadowy aspect of the trees around, with the light faintly gleaming on their trunks, fascinated us so that we followed Hopley with his daughter to where he stood.