“Let us see if he is hurt,” the sergeant cried.

“On! on!” shouted Ezra, whose passion was increased by the sight of the thieves.  “Not a foot back.”

“He may have broken his neck,” grumbled the sergeant, drawing his revolver.  “Have your pistol ready, sir.  We shall be up with them in a few minutes, and they may show fight.”

They were up with them rather sooner than the policeman expected.  Farintosh, finding that speed was of no avail, and that the numbers of his pursuers was now reduced to two, had recourse to strategy.  There was a sharp turn in the road a hundred yards ahead, and on reaching it the three flung themselves off their horses and lay down behind cover.  As Ezra and the sergeant, the grey horse and the bay, came thundering round the curve, there was a fierce splutter of pistol shots from amongst the bushes, and the grey sank down upon its knees with a sobbing moan, struck mortally in the head.  Ezra sprang to his feet and rushed at the ambuscade, while the sergeant, who had been grazed on the cheek by the first volley, jumped from his horse and followed him.  Burt and Farintosh met them foot to foot with all the Saxon gallantry which underlies the Saxon brutality.  Burt stabbed at the sergeant and struck him through the muscle of the neck.  Farintosh fired at the policeman, and was himself shot down by Ezra.  Burt, seeing his companion fall, sprang past his two assailants with a vicious side blow at the merchant, and throwing himself upon the sergeant’s horse, regardless of a bullet from the latter’s revolver, he galloped away, and was speedily out of range.  As to Williams, from the beginning of the skirmish he had lain face downwards upon the ground, twisting his thin limbs about in an agony of fear, and howling for mercy.

“He’s gone!” Ezra said ruefully, gazing after the fugitive.  “We have nothing to go after him with.”

“I’m well-nigh gone myself,” said the policeman, mopping up the blood from his stab, which was more painful than dangerous.  “He has given me a nasty prod.”

“Never mind, my friend, you shall not be the loser.  Get up, you little viper!”—­this to Williams, who was still writhing himself into the most extraordinary attitudes.

“Oh, please, Mr. Girdlestone,” he cried, clutching at Ezra’s boots with his long thin fingers, “it wasn’t me that hit you.  It was Mr. Burt.  I had nothing to do with robbing you either.  That was Mr. Farintosh.  I wouldn’t have gone with him, only I knew that he was a clergyman, so I expected no harm.  I am surprised at you, Mr. Farintosh, I really am.  I’m very glad that Mr. Girdlestone has shot you.”

The ex-parson was sitting with his back against a gnarled stump, which gave him some support.  He had his hand to his chest, and as he breathed a ghastly whistling sound came from the wound, and spirts of blood rushed from his mouth.  His glazed eyes were fixed upon the man who had shot him, and a curious smile played about his thin lips.