“Coming this way?”
“No; going right off behind the wood.”
“To cut them off,” cried the landlord. “It’s some one who knows the country, and if the king’s regiment keeps to the road those last will get before them; they’ll be between two parties of the rebels, and they’ll be cut to pieces.”
“Hooray!” came from the straw where Samson lay, and the landlord turned upon him angrily, but there was too much that was exciting outside to let him find words of reproof.
The clatter of hoofs and jingle of sword against stirrup increased, and Fred lay with his eyes glittering, panting heavily as, full of excitement, he listened to the sounds of hurried flight.
Then came another trumpet blast, sounding distant, and a rushing sound as of a coming storm, ever increasing in power.
Then another blast, and another, both sounding farther away, and as the wounded lad lay there, he pictured to himself the advance of two more regiments of the Parliamentary cavalry rapidly coming on in pursuit, his mental pictures being endorsed by the words of the landlord’s daughter, as she forced her head out of the little opening to watch the retreat and pursuit, turning from time to time to speak to her father in answer to some eager question.
“Are they keeping to the road, Polly? Quick, my girl? Why don’t you speak?”
“Yes, father; they are keeping to the road.”
“Can’t you tell ’em to turn off across the moor?”