At length, early one evening, whether it was that he had got careless of his own safety, or that the growing moon had become strong enough to expose him, his watching came to a sudden end. He was creeping from behind the rock where the stream ran out, for he had been listening all round it in the hope it might convey to his ear some indication of the whereabouts of the goblin miners, when just as he came into the moonlight on the lawn, a whizz in his ear and a blow upon his leg startled him. He instantly squatted in the hope of eluding further notice. But when he heard the sound of running feet, he jumped up to take the chance of escape by flight. He fell, however, with a keen shoot of pain, for the bolt of a crossbow had wounded his leg, and the blood was now streaming from it. He was instantly laid hold of by two or three of the men-at-arms. It was useless to struggle, and he submitted in silence.
“It’s a boy!” cried several of them together, in a tone of amazement. “I thought it was one of those demons. What are you about here?”
“Going to have a little rough usage, apparently,” said Curdie, laughing, as the men shook him.
“Impertinence will do you no good. You have no business here in the king’s grounds, and if you don’t give a true account of yourself, you shall fare as a thief.”
“Why, what else could he be?” said one.
“He might have been after a lost kid, you know,” suggested another.
“I see no good in trying to excuse him. He has no business here, anyhow.”
“Let me go away, then, if you please,” said Curdie.
“But we don’t please—not except you give a good account of yourself.”