Harry wore his sword, and had with him the pistol without which he never stirred abroad. He had been rapidly deciding upon his course. If he was to be of any use, he must warn his friends before they came within range of the ambuscade; yet he durst not fire too soon, for the only result would be to bring them up at a gallop, and they would then almost certainly fall victims. Now that almost complete darkness had fallen, he ventured to make an opening in the foliage and to peer cautiously down. He saw Aglionby and Polignac on the other side of the road crouching behind the gate-posts. Two men had concealed themselves behind the tree’s thick trunk, holding the slack end of the rope; the third waited near them, pistol in hand. Though Harry could not see weapons in the hands of Polignac and Aglionby, he had no doubt that they too had pistols, ready to be used as soon as the riders were brought to a stand-still. On the side overhanging the road, the tree had been lopped of one or two lower branches, but a fairly thick bough ran out on the other side just above the man holding the pistol. Quickly, for time pressed, yet with great caution in order to avoid the slightest noise, Harry crept from his perch over the road, sliding backward down the branch until he reached the trunk. Then, holding his sword lest it clinked against the tree, he straightened himself and turned round, steadying himself with his free hand. One careful step brought him to the fork of the horizontal stem and the parent trunk. He heard the hoof-beats coming very near; the riders could be but a few hundred yards away; fortunately the growing sound was loud enough to drown the slight rustle he could not avoid; and besides, the men below were too much preoccupied with their stratagem to have wits for anything but their advancing victims. Harry’s feet were now wedged somewhat awkwardly; he felt by no means secure, and was for an instant perplexed how to dispose of his sword, for in drawing his pistol with the right hand he would need the left to maintain his equilibrium. He hit on a solution. Grasping the lower part of the scabbard with his knees he prevented it from rattling against the tree trunk; then, resting on his left hand, he bent over to get as clear a view as the circumstances afforded of the man immediately beneath. For a second he hesitated. It went against the grain to fire at the unsuspecting wretch; but the sound of the hoof-beats now certainly within musket-shot banished his hesitation and clinched his resolve. It was life against life: the lives of Fanshawe and Sherebiah against those of the villains ambushing them. Taking careful aim he fired. The cry of the wounded man was smothered by his own shout: "Stop, Fanshawe! Jump the ditch and make for the tree!"