This was not a graceful figure, as of gentle maiden, nor venerable and
slow of foot, as that of an ancient mariner, but a man in the prime of
strength, and largely endowed with that blessing--the mate of truth.
Carne perceived that he had met his equal, and perhaps his better, in a
bout of muscle, and he tried to escape by superior mind.
"Twemlow, how glad I am that I have met you! You are the very man I
wanted. There has been a sad accident in there with one of the Admiral's
pistols, and the dear old man is badly wounded. I am off for a doctor,
for my horse is at hand. For God's sake run in, and hold his head up,
and try to staunch the bleeding. I shall be back in half an hour with
the man that lives at Pebbleridge. Don't lose a moment. Particulars
hereafter."
"Particulars now!" replied Twemlow, sternly, as he planted himself
before his cousin. "For years I have lived among liars, and they called
a lie Crom, and worshipped it. If this is not Crom, why did you bolt the
door?"
"You shall answer for this, when time allows. If the door was bolted, he
must have done it. Let me pass; the last chance depends on my speed."
Carne made a rush to pass, but Twemlow caught him by the breast, and
held him. "Come back," he said, fiercely, "and prove your words. Without
that, you go no further."
Carne seized him by the throat, but his mighty beard, like a collar of
hemp, protected him, and he brought his big brown fist like a hammer
upon the traitor's forehead.
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