On landing they made their way among the bushes, taking turns to
relieve each other in lugging their burthen up the rocky bank. Sam's
curiosity was now fully aroused, so leaving his skiff he clambered
silently up the ridge that overlooked their path. They had stopped to
rest for a moment, and the leader was looking about among the bushes
with his lanthorn. "Have you brought the spades?" said one. "They are
here," replied another, who had them on his shoulder. "We must dig
deep, where there will be no risk of discovery," said a third.
A cold chill ran through Sam's veins. He fancied he saw before him a
gang of murderers, about to bury their victim. His knees smote
together. In his agitation he shook the branch of a tree with which he
was supporting himself as he looked over the edge of the cliff.
"What's that?" cried one of the gang. "Some one stirs among the
bushes!"
The lanthorn was held up in the direction of the noise. One of the
red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it towards the very lace where
Sam was standing. He stood motionless--breathless; expecting the next
moment to be his last. Fortunately, his dingy complexion was in his
favor, and made no glare among the leaves.
"'Tis no one," said the man with the lanthorn. "What a plague! you
would not fire off your pistol and alarm the country."
The pistol was uncocked; the burthen was resumed, and the party slowly
toiled up the bank.
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