“Your pleasure, Sir Robin?” asks the second man respectfully, quieting his horses.
“Well,” returns the little Baronet, “if you think can gallop across faster than those devils could overtake us, I say, proceed. If not—” he glances back over his shoulder.
To tell the truth, the gentleman from Kent considered himself as betwixt two very impending fires, and, ’tis safe to say, he dreaded Sir Percy de Bohun’s possibility at his back as much, if not more, than he did the robbers in front of him.
“We’re in the best condition, Sir,” returned the man, “and fifty minutes ought to take us out of all chances of danger.”
“Unless,” replies the master, again casting an apprehensive eye to the rear, “they might close in on us from behind.”
“No fear, Sir,” cries the lackey, “our pistols are loaded and cocked; with your own rapier, pistols and the blunderbuss, Sir Robin, we should—”
“What’s that?” exclaims the second man, eyes bulging, as with the handle of his whip he points to the fallen figure by the brookside.
“Zounds!” cries the first, rising in his seat to peer.
“’Sdeath! Damnation!” squeaks Sir Robin, pulling down the coach-sash. “On with ye, you devils! On, I say!” thumping impatiently on the pane with his signet ring.
“No fear, Sir, no fear, Sir Robin!” exclaims the second man, jumping to the ground and inspecting Her Ladyship. “It’s only a corp.”