"You're doing finely, Rob;" he paused and leaning nearer added in a whisper, "I am no sure but that the hawk is nearer than ye think..." and with that he was gone, leaving Rob beneath the shadow of the broken masonry.
Barely five minutes had passed before the thud of horses' flying feet came beating down the glen. The moon riding high in the sky glinted on steel and silver, and at the commotion the door of Gortuleg House opened and the figure of an old bent man was silhouetted in the doorway, leaning upon a stick. He was a grotesque enough spectacle—very ponderous and unwieldy, large-faced and ruddy and with shifty, speeding eyes almost buried in a mass of flesh. He was dressed in a loose coat, rough baggy breeches and stockings, with large flat buckled shoes, and as he peered and craned his head he tapped in a fever of impatience upon the flagged stone at the doorway.
A single ray of light made a yellow bar upon the open space in front.
Nearer and nearer came the racket of galloping horses—the jingling of bits and scabbards—the hoarse shout of a man's voice, and into the lit space plunged a powerful roan horse all dirty grey with foam and spent mud. Upon its back there sat a young man rocking with fatigue and with his head uncovered and his coat opened to the night wind. The old man standing in the doorway shuffled forward a step and laid a hand upon his bridle-reins.
"Who are ye?" he asked in a shrill querulous voice, "and what news do you bring?"
For a long time there was no reply, and in the silence the candle in the old man's hand fluttered desperately and went out.
"I am the Prince," said the man upon the horse in a dull voice as though he were half dreaming, "I am the Prince and..." his voice trailed into silence.
"I AM THE PRINCE," SAID THE MAN UPON THE HORSE.