"Come and see your prisoner hung, for I suppose your brutal Dutchmen will not have me shot." "I say," said Waller, staring more wonderingly than ever at his prisoner, "you are using very fine language. Are you a bit off your head? Who wants to hang or shoot you? What Dutchmen?" "The enemy--the brutal soldiery, of course." "I say, look here, I don't know what you are talking about," said Waller, "and I don't know who you are, only that you jumped out at me like a highwayman with a pistol. I say, what are you?" "One of the spies, I suppose," said the boy mockingly. "One of the poor unfortunate wretches you people are hunting through the woods." "Nonsense!" cried Waller. "You must be fancying all this. There are no soldiers here hunting people. Do you know where you are?" "Yes; in the New Forest." "That's right, and in the part my father holds the shooting over. But," continued Waller, showing his white teeth, "he wouldn't want to shoot you if he were at home; you are not fat enough. Pooh! Nobody would want to shoot a boy like you." "Boy! Who do you call a boy?" cried the poor fellow, flushing up again. "Why, you, of course. You are no older than I am, and I am a boy." "Well, never mind that. You have made me a prisoner. What are you going to do next?" "Well, I think I am going to pick up that pistol, wherever it lies." "Bah!" cried the prisoner. "I only did it to scare you off. It isn't loaded." "Oh!" said Waller. "Well, that's one to you. I couldn't tell." "What are you going to do with me now?" said the lad haughtily. "Chain me?" "Chain you!" said Waller, laughing, "why, you are not a dog. I am not going to do anything with you. I don't want you." "No; but you want the blood-money, I suppose." "There you go again," cried Waller pettishly. "Chains and blood! I say, do you know what you are talking about? Blood-money?" "Yes; the reward for taking me." "Reward! For taking you?" "Yes, where are your bloodhounds?" "Well, you are a rum chap," said Waller, laughing. "You talk like a fellow in a romance. We have no bloodhounds. We have a pointer, a water-spaniel, and a retriever. Why, what sort of an idea have you got in your head about bloodhounds hunting you?" "I--I meant the soldiers," said the poor fellow faintly: and his eyes began to close. "Let me sit up, please. I think I'm dying." CHAPTER THREE. ON PAROLE. The words sounded so real, and there was such a deathly aspect in the pallor and the cold perspiration that started upon the prostrate lad's ghastly-looking face, that Waller was convinced at once, and quickly rising from where he sat he bent over and raised the lad's head a little, but only to lay it down again as the poor fellow fell back quite insensible.