"Don't see," retorted his laconic friend.
Of course when the coach was well away from the inn, Dawson received new instructions, and took the road to Rowsley. When the ladies had departed, I went to the tap-room with Stanley, and after paying the host for the coffee, the potatoes, and the dinner which alas! we had not tasted, I ordered a great bowl of sack and proceeded to drink with my allies in the hope that I might make them too drunk to follow us. Within half an hour I discovered that I was laboring at a hopeless task. There was great danger that I would be the first to succumb; so I, expressing a wish to sleep off the liquor before the ladies should return, made my escape from the tap-room, mounted my horse, and galloped furiously after Dorothy and Madge. John was riding by the coach when I overtook it.
It was two hours past noon when I came up with John and the girls. Snow had been falling softly earlier in the afternoon, but as the day advanced the storm grew in violence. A cold, bleak wind was blowing from the north, and by reason of the weather and because of the ill condition of the roads, the progress of the coach was so slow that darkness overtook us before we had finished half of our journey to Rowsley. Upon the fall of night the storm increased in violence, and the snow came in piercing, horizontal shafts which stung like the prick of a needle.
At the hour of six—I but guessed the time—John and I, who were riding at the rear of the coach, heard close on our heels the trampling of horses. I rode forward to Dawson, who was in the coach box, and told him to drive with all the speed he could make. I informed him that some one was following us, and that I feared highwaymen were on our track.
Hardly had I finished speaking to Dawson when I heard the report of a hand-fusil, back of the coach, near the spot where I had left John. I quickly drew my sword, though it was a task of no small labor, owing to the numbness of my fingers. I breathed along the blade to warm it, and then I hastened to John, whom I found in a desperate conflict with three ruffians. No better swordsman than John ever drew blade, and he was holding his ground in the darkness right gallantly. When I rode to his rescue, another hand-fusil was discharged, and then another, and I knew that we need have no more fear from bullets, for the three men had discharged their weapons, and they could not reload while John and I were engaging them. I heard the bullets tell upon the coach, and I heard the girls screaming lustily. I feared they had been wounded, but you may be sure I had no leisure to learn the truth. Three against two was terrible odds in the dark, where brute force and luck go for more than skill. We fought desperately for a while, but in the end we succeeded in beating off the highwaymen. When we had finished with the knaves who had attacked us, we quickly overtook our party. We were calling Dawson to stop when we saw the coach, careening with the slant of the hill, topple over, and fall to the bottom of a little precipice five or six feet in height. We at once dismounted and jumped down the declivity to the coach, which lay on its side, almost covered by drifted snow. The pole had broken in the fall, and the horses were standing on the road. We first saw Dawson. He was swearing like a Dutchman, and when we had dragged him from his snowy grave, we opened the coach door, lifted out the ladies, and seated them upon the uppermost side of the coach. They were only slightly bruised, but what they lacked in bruises they made up in fright. In respect to the latter it were needless for me to attempt a description.
We can laugh about it now and speak lightly concerning the adventure, and, as a matter of truth, the humor of the situation appealed to me even then. But imagine yourself in the predicament, and you will save me the trouble of setting forth its real terrors.
The snow was up to our belts, and we did not at first know how we were to extricate the ladies. John and Dawson, however, climbed to the road, and I carried Dorothy and Madge to the little precipice where the two men at the top lifted them from my arms. The coach was broken, and when I climbed to the road, John, Dawson, and myself held a council of war against the storm. Dawson said we were three good miles from Rowsley, and that he knew of no house nearer than the village at which we could find shelter. We could not stand in the road and freeze, so I got the blankets and robes from the coach and made riding pads for Dorothy and Madge. These we strapped upon the broad backs of the coach horses, and then assisted the ladies to mount. I walked by the side of Madge, and John performed the same agreeable duty for Dorothy. Dawson went ahead of us, riding my horse and leading John's; and thus we travelled to Rowsley, half dead and nearly frozen, over the longest three miles in the kingdom.
John left us before entering the village, and took the road to Rutland, intending to stop for the night at a cottage two miles distant, upon his father's estates. I was to follow Sir John when the ladies were safely lodged at The Peacock.
It was agreed between us that nothing should be said concerning the presence of any man save Dawson and myself in our party.
When John left us, I rode to The Peacock with Dorothy and Madge, and while I was bidding them good-by my violent cousin, Sir George, entered the inn. Dorothy ran to her father and briefly related the adventures of the night, dwelling with undeserved emphasis upon the help I had rendered. She told her father—the statement was literally true—that she had met me at the Royal Arms, where I was stopping, and that she had, through fear of the storm and in dread of highwaymen, asked me to ride beside their coach to Rowsley.