"I'll stand by you," he replied. "I'll do what I can to help you. But it's no use talking. Come along!"
Presently they came to a high, stone wall, and Rupert uttered an exclamation of joy.
"We're just above Wistman's Wood, and this is the great wall that runs from Beardown to Rough Tor, which is past Post Bridge Hall. It will be easy going now, and if the fog lifts the wall will help to conceal us from anyone on the road below."
They started off again at a good pace. They had not gone for more than half a mile when they both stopped simultaneously.
The sound of a voice had come out of the fog far above them. They listened. It came again—a faint shout. They were straining their ears in the intense silence. Presently they heard a pony's iron-shod hoofs striking on the granite. A moment later another shout, nearer than the first.
"Mounted warders on the tor above us," Rupert whispered. "Quick, get over the wall! We must hide until they're gone."
As they climbed the wall a large stone was displaced and went rolling and bounding down the hill side. Then, just as they jumped to the ground, there was a sudden puff of wind and the cloud of fog rolled away, almost as if it were a great white blanket withdrawn by invisible hands. And there on the tor above them Rupert saw clearly outlined against the sky two horsemen, about three hundred yards apart.
"By God, we're done!" 303 cried.
The mounted warders raised a shout, and jabbing their heels into their ponies' sides, commenced to gallop down the hill.
"We must make a run for it," Rupert said. "There's fog still in the valley."