“He is sure to follow us,” replied Manners.  “Maybe he has been delayed, and yet we have come slowly.  Hark!  I hear the ring of hoofs upon the road even now.”

They halted to await their companion, but they soon discovered, as the sound of the galloping grew rapidly more and more distinct, that the horseman was advancing towards them from the opposite direction.

“He is hindered, surely,” exclaimed De la Zouch, who heartily wished he was stating the truth, “and it will soon be time for us to turn our faces again towards the Hall.”

“Not just yet, Sir Henry,” Dorothy quickly replied; “but you may; and you will.”

“Not yet, eh!  Then let us have a race along this lane,” suggested De la Zouch, evading the hint and pointing to a long lane almost completely overarched with the massive branches of the overhanging trees which grew on either side.

Dorothy looked at Manners appealingly.

“What say you, Doll?” he inquired.  “You shall determine.”

“Nay, you decide.”

“To that clump of trees,” interposed De la Zouch.

“Well, if Dorothy does not object—­”

“Not I, in truth,” she interrupted.

“Away we go, then,” replied Manners.  “There and back at once?” he asked.

“No, only there,” replied Sir Henry, ill-concealing a malicious grin.  “It will be a long, long time before you come back this way, I trow,” he added under his breath.

“But we are not yet placed,” said Dorothy’s lover, as De la Zouch was about to start away.  “We two must fall in the rear, Sir Henry.”

“Nay, I am equally as well mounted as you,” returned the maiden.  “We will run upon our merits, or I shall withdraw.”

In a few minutes they were careening along the course in gallant style, as nearly as possible all three abreast, but as they neared the trees which formed the winning mark, Sir Henry fell behind and left the other two to finish the exciting race alone.

“Curse them, a murrain on them!” he muttered, as he pulled his horse to a standstill; “where can the fellows be?”

His objurgation might have been heard, for no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he saw, rising up from the brushwood, the men of whom he had just spoken in such uncomplimentary terms.

Burdened as he was with anxiety for the successful issue of his plot, and fearful lest at the last stage it should miscarry and snatch away the prize for which he had struggled so long, and which already seemed to be within his grasp, De la Zouch was in a terrible ferment of hope and fear.

“The villains,” he muttered, as he sat still in his saddle impatiently watching; “why don’t they move?  It will be too late in a minute.  I’ll thrash every mother’s son of them when we get back to Ashby, that I will.  Dear me! what a fool I am to forget the signal;” and putting his hand to his mouth he blew a loud shrill whistle through his fingers.