He then walked out, and slowly retreated backwards towards the
corner-house, covering his retreat with the levelled pistol, and the
flash of his dauntless eye.

He had nearly reached the corner, when Gilbert Potter dashed up behind
him, with Roger all in a foam. Joe Fairthorn, seized with deadly terror
when he heard the terrible name, had set off at full speed for home; but
descrying Gilbert approaching on a gallop, changed his course, met the
latter, and gasped out the astounding intelligence. All this was the
work of a minute, and when Gilbert reached the corner, a single glance
showed him the true state of affairs. The confused group in front of the
tavern, some faces sallow with cowardice, some red with indignation and
shame; the solitary, retreating figure, alive in every nerve with
splendid courage, told him the whole story, which Joe's broken words had
only half hinted.

Flinging himself from his horse, he levelled his musket, and cried
out,--

"Surrender!"

Sandy Flash, with a sudden spring, placed his back against the house,
pointed his pistol at Gilbert, and said: "Drop your gun, or I fire!"

For answer, Gilbert drew the trigger; the crack of the explosion rang
sharp and clear, and a little shower of mortar covered Sandy Flash's
cocked hat. The ball had struck the wall about four inches above his
head.