To me there was only one explanation possible.
This continual shifting of the Colonel, ever under
the charge of those rascally dragoons, commanded now
by a man whose familiarity with Tixall was an evil
augury, meant one thing only. Soon, perhaps within
an hour or two, there would be fighting, and under
cover of that a stab in the back or a bullet in the
head would clear the Colonel out of Brocton’s
path for ever.
“Take these papers, Master Freake,” said
I. “Mistress Waynflete will tell you what
has happened here, and you can give them back to their
owner if you choose. But do not, I beg you, on
any account let the rascal inside see or hear you.”
I raced indoors, seized the sergeant’s tuck
and took his baldrick from him, heedless of his vile
threats. I left him there, choking with foulness,
unhitched Sultan, sprang into the saddle, and cantered
up to my friends.
“Now, Mistress Margaret,” I said, “describe
your father so that I shall know him when I see him.”
She sketched his portrait in broad, clear outlines,
and I fixed the description point by point in my memory.
“That’s the road to Newcastle,”
said I, pointing along the edge of the mere, “and
it’s fairly straight and good. Follow me
there as quickly as you can, and inquire for me at
the ‘Rising Sun.’ I’ll have
news of the Colonel, if not the Colonel himself, when
we meet again.”
I bowed to Margaret, dug my heels into Sultan, and
was off like a flash.
IN WHICH I SLIP
Sultan was a horse for a man, long and regular in
his stride, perfect in action, quick to obey, cat-like
at need. I might have ridden him from the day
on which the blacksmith drank his colt-ale, for we
understood each other exactly, and I was as comfortable
on his back as in my bed at the Hanyards. In
the open road at the mere-end, he settled down into
a steady, loping trot, and I was free to think matters
out to the music of his hoof-beats on the road.
It was only eight or nine miles into Newcastle, and
as the dragoons would travel slowly and warily there
was just a chance that I should be there first.
Further, it was wholly unlikely that I should be interfered
with, since the only two enemies who knew I was aiding
Mistress Margaret were helpless in my rear—Brocton
at Stafford, and the sergeant in the “Ring of
Bells.” I was unknown in the town, not having
been there since my schooldays, and then only on rare
occasions, as a visit to the town meant a thirty-mile
walk in one day.
Plan-making was futile. Everything would depend
upon chance, but if chance threw me into touch with
the Colonel, it should go hard if I did not free him
somehow or other. The most splendid thing would
be if I could free him before Margaret overtook me
at the “Rising Sun.” True, I had only
an hour or so to spare, but now strange things happened
in an hour of my life, and this great luck might be
mine. Then would come my rich and rare reward—the
light in her deep, blue eyes and the tremulous thanks
on her ripe, red lips.
