“It’s all safe, Massar John,” he whispered; “let ’em come now as soon as they like; this chile has matched ’em.”
“That’s a fine fellow—hold them at bay, Pompey—I shall see you again—keep a good heart.”
“Good-by, massar—come back ’fore long—old Pompey’ll keep dem ’ere silver platters, and milk-jugs, and all de cetras safe as de dead folks in ’em graves—you can ’pend on dat, massar.”
“Good-by, Pomp—good-by!”
They put their horses into a gallop, and rode away through the forest. For many moments no one spoke, and the only sound that arose was the smothered beat of their horses’ hoofs on the turf, and the mournful shiver of the leaves, as the wind sighed through them. Brant took the lead, tracking the narrow path as unerringly as if it had been a highway. Suddenly he checked his horse, and made a signal to his companions to halt.
“The rebels are coming,” he said; “they have got on our traces.”
They listened; the heavy tramp of steeds came up from the distance.
“They will overtake us!” exclaimed Sir John; “what are we to do, Brant?”
“Let them pass—we will baffle them yet—follow me—we know the woods, at any rate.”
He turned aside from the path, and urged his horse through the underbrush, followed by his companions, until he reached a little dell, through which a brook crept with a pleasant gurgle.