With a quick movement of his strong arm backwards he dealt the man who was holding him a terrific blow with the butt of the pistol, and discharged the other full at another dark figure looming in front.
This time there was an answering yell; but the odds were still tremendous, and Tom felt himself growing faint and giddy, and though he hit out lustily on all sides, he had no confidence that his blows told.
Every moment he expected to hear the sound of a report, and to know that his quietus had come; but at last he was aware that it was his captors' wish to take him prisoner, and not to kill him.

They had closed in upon him now that he was disarmed, and were using every artifice to overpower him without further injury.
Tom felt his own struggles becoming weaker each moment, and at last he was conscious that somebody had crawled towards his feet and was passing a cord about them.

In vain he sought to kick out and release himself; the next minute the cord was pulled tight.

His feet were jerked from beneath him, he fell backwards heavily, and for some time he knew no more.
When he opened his eyes once again, he found himself sitting propped up against the rocks, his arms tightly pinioned to his sides, and his feet still encumbered by cords; whilst at a little distance sat his assailants in a ring, eating and drinking, and making merry together.
One had a bandaged head, and another had his arm in a rude sling.
But the guide had come in for the worst of Tom's blows, and lay all his length along the ground, stiff and dead.
Tom smiled a grim sort of smile.

He suspected that the same fate would shortly be his, but nevertheless he did not pity the unfaithful peasant.