But easy and exciting as was this brilliant sword-play, it could not in the long run be of much avail. Hardly had the Sergeant fallen back than three more soldiers, also hot and furious, came rushing in to reinforce their comrades. Bathurst had in his day been counted the finest fencer in England, his wrist was as fresh and strong as the steel which he held, but the odds were beginning to accumulate against him. Five men in the shed, and the others could not be very far away! John Stich felt his muscles nearly cracking with the vigorous effort to maintain his quiescent position and not to come to the rescue of his hard-pressed friend. Suddenly one of the soldiers levelled his musket. Patience saw it and gave a cry of horror. Stich, throwing prudence to the winds, would have rushed forward, to prevent this awful thing at any cost, but the Sergeant, though wounded, had lost none of his zest, and his eye had been fixed on the smith. "Keep back the smith!" he shouted, "use your bayonets! quick!" And as two of his men obeyed him, he himself threw his full weight against John, and together the three men succeeded in rendering the worthy fellow momentarily powerless. "Captain! Captain!" he shouted desperately, "have a care!" Of course Jack had realised his danger. The group of his assailants stood out in every detail before him, like a clear-cut sunlit picture. But against the musket levelled at him he could do nothing, it was Luck’s chance to do him a good turn; he himself was hard pressed by two men close to his knees. Patience felt as if her heart would cease to beat, her impulse was to rush blindly, stupidly forward, when suddenly a piping voice, vague and uncertain, was heard above the click of Jack’s sword. "Don’t ’ee let ’em get ’ee, sir!" and Jock Miggs, with trembling, yet determined hands, gave a vigorous tug to the coat tails of the soldier, who was even now pulling the trigger of his musket. The latter, who had been aiming very deliberately for the one bright patch on Jack’s person caused by the red glow of the furnace, lost his aim: there was a loud report, and a bullet went whizzing high above Bathurst’s head, and buried itself in the woodwork above him. This was the signal for a new phase of this curious and unequal struggle. The shepherds, at first, knowing nothing of the cause of this quarrel, had stood open-mouthed, somewhat frightened and awaiting events, at a short distance from the scene of the scuffle. But when the chestnut horse had been led out into the open, they suddenly had an inkling as to who its owner was. Jack o’ Lantern, bearing the masked highwayman on his back, was well known to the poor folk on Brassing Moor. Beau Brocade, who but yesterday had left fifty guineas in the Brassington poor box! Beau Brocade, the hero of the Heath! He! to be caught by a parcel of red coats? Never! Jock Miggs but voiced the feeling of the majority.