Crown and Sceptre Part 99

"What are you muttering about?" whispered Fred, as his companion went forward and knelt down.

"I was only saying, don't blame me if they come down on us with swords that hasn't been used to dig potatoes, Master Fred."

"Let me come by you, and I'll stand on guard while you strike a light."

"No, sir; I shan't," said Samson, gruffly.

"What's that?"

"You heared, sir."

"Yes, I did hear," whispered Fred, angrily; "and please remember, sir, that I am your officer."

"Can't remember that now, Master Fred, only that you're to be took care of. I had strict orders to be always ready to shove my big body in front of you when anybody was going to" (_nick_, _nick_) "cut at you"

(_nick_, _nick_, _nick_)--"Look at that!--with a sword."

"Who gave you those orders?" said Fred, sharply.

"Your mother, sir, 'fore we" (_nick_, _nick_) "started for the wars at first." (_Nick_, _nick_) "I shall never get a light."

Samson was down upon his knees, striking a piece of flint sharply upon a thin bar of steel turned over at each end, so as to form a double hook, which the operator grasped in his left hand, while Fred stood gazing straight before him, sword drawn, and the point held over his man's head, ready to receive any attack.

At every stroke with the flint, a number of sparks shone out for a moment, lighting up the striker's face, but though he kept on nicking away, there was no result.

"Why, Samson," whispered Fred, as he mastered a curious sensation of emotion at the man's words, which brought up the memory of a pair of tender, loving eyes gazing into his at the moment of farewell, "you have forgotten the tinder!"

The nicking sound ceased on the instant, and Samson began indignantly--

"Well, I do like that, Master Fred. I mayn't be a scholar, and I never larnt Latin, and that sort of stuff, but I'll grow vegetables and make cider with any man in Coombeland."

"What has making cider to do with tinder, you great oaf!" cried Fred, angrily, so as to hide his emotion.

"Nothing at all, sir; only you seem to think I'm such a bog-walker that I haven't sense to know how to strike a light."

"Well, where is the light? and how can you expect to get one without tinder?"

"I don't. Here's the tinder in a box, but all the sparks are blown over it by the draught."

"Then strike lower man."

"There, then," cried Samson, viciously, as he nicked harder, with the result that one of the tiny sparks, instead of fading out, seemed to remain motionless on the floor. This spark Samson blew till it increased and glowed more brightly, showing his face close to the light, and the point of something yellow being applied to the red glow.

That something yellow, being a pointed match dipped in brimstone, began to melt, and then boil and burst into a blue fluttering flame, which ignited the match; and the next minute Samson held up the lighted candle close to the arched roof of the pa.s.sage, exclaiming, "There!" in a triumphant tone; and then, "Why, this is only a big drain, Master Fred!"

"Hist! Give me the light," said Fred, as he listened intently.

"Going along here, sir?"

"Yes, of course."

"All right, sir; I'm candlestick," said Samson, making a rattling noise as he replaced the light-engendering apparatus in his pouch.

"No, no; I'll go first," said Fred, impatiently.

"Yes, sir; you shall go first after the light."

"Samson!"

"Yes, sir. What would your mother say, if I let you go straight into danger like this, with me here?"

"Will you recollect that you are a soldier, sir?"

"Of course I will, Master Fred. How is a man to help it, with an iron pot on his head rubbing him bald? Ready, sir?"

"Ready? Yes."

"Then here goes!" said Samson. "Can't expect a man to obey orders when he's underground."

Samson strode on with the candle in his left hand and his sword now in his right, leading the way, with his young master close behind, and their shadows following and seeming to dance on the floor and walls, which glistened here and there with moisture.

They proceeded slowly, Samson twice over hazarding a remark on the dampness, but only to be sternly told to proceed, till at last the little flight of steps appeared leading into the vault, where they came to a sudden halt, for something suddenly flashed in the light of the candle, and a harsh voice cried--

"Stand!"

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

AT THE POINT OF THE SWORD.

Fred Forrester had been expecting the challenge from the moment they began to move, but so suddenly and unexpectedly did it come at last, that he remained for the moment speechless, gazing at the dimly seen figure framed in the arched way, with the light playing upon the sword extended toward his breast.

Samson was the first to speak.

"Take hold of the candle now," he whispered, "and I'll rush him. There isn't room to strike, sir; and I can put aside his point."

"No, no," said Fred, forcing himself to the front, and addressing him who barred the way. "Put up your sword; we are friends."

"Friends!" came back mockingly. "Then put up your own weapon."

"Of coa.r.s.e," said Fred, quickly sheathing his sword. "I didn't know who might be here. Scar Markham, we're come to help you."

"To help?" said the guardian of the vault, in a voice which sounded strangely hollow in the narrow place. "Is this some fresh treachery?"

"What!" shouted Fred, angrily, as he stepped forward and pressed right up to the point of the sword. Military life and training both were forgotten, and in an instant the lad felt back in the old boyish days sit home, when some sharp contention had taken place between him and his companion.

"Stand back, sir!" said Scarlett, sternly, "or--"

"No, you wouldn't," cried Fred. "Put down your sword. You wouldn't be such a coward. How dare you accuse me of treachery?"

Without a moment's hesitation, the sword-point was dropped, and Fred cried eagerly--