"It's all right, sir, plenty of time. Christ, but ye're 'eavy, ole man. 'Ere you are, sir, got 'im? Not that way, sir. Put yer arm round 'im, let 'is 'ead rest agin yer shoulder like."
"Damn, he's slipping; he's slipped, Haslopp. Get your swords out, you two, look behind you," to Green and Williams, whose faces were now ashen.
"Orl right now, sir. Gimme my 'orse, Williams. Blast ye, don't let 'im go."
"Are you up, Haslopp? The point, Green, mind, not the cut."
"Not yet, sir, steady," to his dancing horse; "orl right now, sir."
"Come on then. Be off, you two, no good your waiting here. Gallop on and tell the troop I'm coming—you too, Haslopp."
There was no answer from the shoeing-smith; he remained where he was. Not so the other two; they were off like swallows, nor did they draw rein till a voice from the roadside made them pull up, sick with sudden terror. It was only Rogers, however, requesting the loan of a stirrup, and, much relieved, the two, Rogers running alongside, proceeded on their way.
"Price of a pint out of this 'ere?" gasped the pedestrian.
"Thank God, on your bended knees, Rogers, for 'Is mercy to us all this day," said Green.
"So I will, matey, when I gits the pint. Think the bloke 'll stand it, Billy?"