A few only of the marauders were in a position to offer any
resistance whatever. The greater portion were buried under the mass
of foliage. Many had been struck down by the trunks or heavy arms
of the trees. All were hampered and confused by the situation in which
they found themselves. Under such circumstances it was a massacre
rather than a fight. Malcolm, seeing the inability of the freebooters
to oppose any formidable resistance, sheathed his sword, and left
it to the peasants to avenge the countless murders which the band
had committed, and the ruin and misery which they had inflicted
upon the country.
In a few minutes all was over. The brigands were shot down, piked,
or slain by the heavy axes through the openings in their leafy
prison. Quarter was neither asked for nor given. The freebooters
knew that it would be useless, and died cursing their foes and
their own fate in being thus slaughtered like rats in a trap. Two
or three of the peasants were wounded by pistol shots, but this
was all the injury that their success cost them.
"The wicked have digged a pit, and they have fallen into it
themselves," the farmer said as he approached the spot where Malcolm
was standing, some little distance from the scene of slaughter.
"Verily the Lord hath delivered them into our hands. I understand,
my young friend, why you as a soldier did not aid in the slaughter
of these villains.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104