Three things, however, happened almost simultaneously, which gave a new aspect altogether to affairs.  The man upon Sherbrooke’s left hand fired a pistol at his head, but missed him in the darkness of night.  At the same moment the other man at whom he was aiming the blow, and who being nearer to him of course saw better, parried it successfully, but abstained from returning it, exclaiming, “By Heavens!  I believe it is Leonard Sherbrooke!”

“If you had asked me,” replied Sherbrooke, “I would have told you that long ago:  pray who are you?”

“I am Frank Bryerly,” replied the man:  “hold your hands, hold your hands every one, and let us see what mischief’s done!  Dick Harrison, I believe, is down.  Devilish unfortunate, Sherbrooke, that you did not speak.”

“Speak!” returned Sherbrooke, “what should I speak for? these are not times for speaking over much.”

“I am not hurt, I am not hurt!” cried the man called Harrison; “but hang him, I believe he has killed my horse, and the horse had well nigh killed me, for he reared and went over with me at the shot:—­get up, brute, get up!” and he kicked the horse in the side to make him rise.  Up started the beast upon his feet in a moment, trembling in every limb, but still apparently not much hurt; and upon examination it proved that the ball had struck him in the fleshy part of the shoulder, producing a long, but not a deep wound, and probably causing the animal to rear by the pain it had occasioned.

As soon as this was explained satisfactorily, a somewhat curious scene was presented, by Leonard Sherbrooke standing in the midst of his assailants, and shaking hands with two of them as old friends, while the third was presented to him with all the form and ceremony of a new introduction.  But such things, alas! were not uncommon in those days; and gentlemen of high birth and education have been known to take to the King’s Highway—­not like Prince Hal, for sport, but for a mouthful of bread.

“Why, Frank,” said Sherbrooke, addressing the one who had seized his horse’s rein, “how is this, my good fellow?”

“Why, just like everything else in the world,” replied the other in a gay tone.  “I’m at the down end of the great see-saw, Sherbrooke, that’s all.  When last you knew me, I was a gay Templer, in not bad practice, bamboozling the juries, deafening the judges, making love to every woman I met, ruining the tavern-keepers, and astounding the watch and the chairman.  In short, Sherbrooke, very much like yourself.”

“Exactly, Frank,” replied Sherbrooke, “my own history within a letter or so:  we were always called the counterparts, you know; but what became of you after I left you, a year and a half ago, when this Dutch skipper first came over to usurp his father-in-law’s throne?”

“Why, I did not take it quite so hotly as you did,” replied the other; “but I remained for some time after the King was gone, till I heard he had come back to Ireland; then, of course, I went to join him, fared with the rest, lost everything, and here I am—­after having been a Templer, and then a captain in the king’s guards—­doing the honours of the King’s Highway.”