Across the yard a clatter of hoofs sounded, cutting short his speech.
"The gate!" he shouted, clambering across the sill.
But he was too late. As he dropped upon the cobbles and pelted off to close it, I saw and heard horse and rider go hurtling through the open gate—an indistinguishable mass. A shout—a jet or two of sparks—a bang on the thin timbers as on a drum—and the hoofs were thudding away farther and farther into darkness.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE OWL'S CRY.
Silence—and then Mr. Rogers's voice uplifted and shouting for Hodgson!
But Hodgson, it seemed, had found out a way of his own. For a fresh sound of hoofs smote on our ears—this time in the lane—a tune pounded out to the accompaniment of loose stones volleyed and dropping between the beats.
"Drat the man's impidence," said Miss Belcher coolly; "he's taken my mare!"
"What's that you say?" demanded Mr. Rogers's angry voice from the yard.