"I shall, however, quickly overtake you," Mr. Malherb said to his men. "Travel by Sherberton; hold over Believer Tor; then pass under Dagger Farm and cross East Dart at the pack-horse bridge."
These things the labourers had done and now hesitated to proceed to Chagford without Maurice Malherb. They dismounted, therefore, by the old 'cyclopean' span that still crosses Dart at Postbridge, sheltered themselves and their steeds against the sting of the air and listened where Dart sang to the savage dawn. Young green things of the year shivered in the morning chill; nature still slept; the men got under a flaming brake of spring furze that made light in the grey; then, waiting there, they heard the clink of iron-shod feet on granite and knew that somebody was crossing the bridge. A heron floated upon broad wings down stream; and in the marshes at hand a cock curlew woke and uttered strange, bubbling cries of warning to his mate.
One tall, thin figure appeared upon the bridge, and Putt observed it.
"What a maypole!" he cried, "yet how a minces in his going for such a long-legged un!"
"I'll wager the man's up to no good at this hour. Us have both got hoss pistols: let's stop him! 'Twill warm us," exclaimed Bickford.
Thomas agreed, and together they leapt from their hiding-place and blocked the passage of the bridge. Then Putt, at close quarters, stared into the great white face frowning down upon him and nearly fell into the water.
"God's Word! 'Tis a ghost from the grave," he shouted. "'Tis the old varmint us buried after Christmas, come to life an' got into breeches!"
But Mark Bickford had no imagination.
"If she'm alive, us never buried her," he declared. "Cock your pistol an' hold it to her head."
"You stand still, Lovey Lee, an' give an account of yourself," commanded Putt. "Since you'm alive, I don't care a farden for you."