The Rawdon gang worked hard to get to the narrows, but found it hopeless.  “Give it to them,” shouted Bangs from the shore; and in response, the guns rang out again, while Bill strained every muscle to the utmost.  The punt grounded on the shore above the narrows, and four of the men jumped out into the water and fled up the bank, firing their pistols as they retired.  The punt was captured, and brought back to the guarded beach, with a wounded man and some tools in the bottom.  Only by swimming, or by a long detour of very many miles, could the four fugitives find their way back to the shore they had sought in vain.

The wounded man was taken out of the punt and laid on the beach.  “Is he dead?” asked Bigglethorpe.  “No,” answered the detective, feeling the head of the victim, and inspecting him by the aid of matches struck by the smoker Sylvanus; “it’s a good thing for him thet yore two gens were louded with deck shot end thet they sketter sow, else he’d a been a dead men.  He’s got a few pellets in the beck of his head, jest eneugh to sten the scoundrel for a few minutes.  Ah, he’s hed a creck owver the top of his head with a cleb, the colonel’s werk, very likely.”

“Do you want him kept?” enquired Mr. Bigglethorpe, as sentry.

“Oh, dear me, yes; he’s Rawdon’s chief men.  I wouldn’t lose him fer a hendred dollars.  Rufus, do you mind blowing his brains out if he attempts to escaype?”

The good-natured Rufus said he didn’t mind watching the prisoner, but he imagined clubbing would be kinder than blowing out his brains.

“All right!” answered the detective, “all right, so long as you keep him safely.”

So Mr. Bangs went back to the house, followed by Sylvanus, Timotheus and Bill Richards, the last of whom resumed his post, namely the trunk on which Pierre Lajeunesse had rested.

When the encampment was reached, Mr. Bangs asked Coristine if he had been smoking on guard or lighting matches, but he had not.  He asked Mr. Terry the same question, which the old soldier almost took as an insult.  “An’ is it to me ye come, axin’ av Oi shmoke on guarrd, an’ shpind my toime loightin’ matches loike a choild?  Oi’ve sane sarvice, sorr, and nobody knows betther fwhat his juty is.”

“I sincerely beg your pardon, Mr. Terry.  Please excuse my enxiety; I smell fire.”

“Don’t mintion it, sorr, betune us.  Faix, an’ it’s foire I shmill an’ moighty sthrong, too.”

The detective came back to the front of the house, and saw the fire that had broken forth in a moment, and was flaming in every room of basement and upper storey, a fire too rapidly advanced to be got under, even had the means been at hand.