"You've done it now, Master Ralph, and got your wolf cub after all." "Yes," panted Ralph hoarsely, as Mark felt as if a cloud had suddenly rolled away from his sight, and he saw clearly that half-a-dozen men were surrounding him, and Ralph Darley, his greatest enemy, was kneeling at his side, saying softly,-- "Yes, I've got the wolf cub after all;" and then the two lads' eyes met, and gazed deeply into each other's in a curious stare. That stare had the same effect on both lads--that of making them feel uncomfortable. Mark Eden, as he recovered from the shock of being so near a terrible ending to his young life, felt that, surrounded as he was by enemies, he ought to spring to his feet, draw his sword, and defend himself to the last; while Ralph Darley knew that, according to all old family traditions, he ought to order his men to seize a hand and foot each, give his young enemy two or three swings, and launch him headlong off the mighty cliff, and then stand and laugh at the capers he would cut in his fall. For people had been very savage in their revenges out in that wild part of England, shut away from the civilisation of the time by moor and mountain. Ralph knew, too, that though they were better then than in the early days of the Wars of the Roses, they were still brutal enough, and that he would gain the applause and respect of his men by giving them the order. But Mark Eden had not drawn his sword to begin cutting and thrusting; and instead of leaving the lad to hang till he fell, he, Ralph Darley, had, in opposition to his father's men, risked his own life to save that of his enemy--going down over a hundred feet, swinging at the end of a couple of ropes badly tied together. "Seems very stupid," the two lads thought. "What does he mean by coming here, and getting into such a horrible position--an idiot!" said Ralph to himself. "How dare he, an insolent Darley, come down by a rope and save my life!" said Mark to himself. Then there was an awkward pause, with the two lads scowling, and avoiding each other's gaze, and the men nudging one another, and winking knowingly. Nick Garth whispering behind his hand to Ram Jennings, that the young cocks would set up their hackles directly, whip out their spurs, and there would be a fight; and, in expectation of this, the men, six in number, now spread themselves into an arc, whose chord was the edge of the cliff, thus enclosing the pair so as to check any design on the part of the enemy to make a rush and escape.